Old Fashioned Love
by SnazzinessRules
Summary: Harry and Ruth are 'courting' and doing things the old fashioned way.
1. Chapter 1

**This is another Nicola Walker fic, again inspired by our ramblings with her. This will be a looooong and fluffyful, but gentle, fic. It's one of our favourite things we've done, so we hope you like it.**

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The door slides quietly to one side, just a gentle swish as it rolls across. He's so lost in sad contemplation that he doesn't even look up.

"Hi," she announces. It's gentle, and friendly and nervous all at once and, finally, he looks up.

"Hi," he sighs; the kind of sigh which comes from the depths of his soul, and lets her know, in no uncertain terms, his relief that it is her standing there, and no-one else.

"I, erm, just wanted to say…about Ros..." She slowly crosses the gap between the door and the desk, and he's too afraid - afraid that she might have come to judge him, too - to say anything. Instead, he holds his steady gaze on her and waits until she continues, "…that you were right." She swallows, trying to unstick the words from her dry mouth; there is so much more than this which needs to be said, but she can't. She just can't. "It isn't your fault Harry."

"Thank you." The words are quiet, almost swallowed by the room, and she's never heard him sound so humbled or so lost.

She nods, solemnly, and is struck by a sudden urge to protect him; to tell him it's ok. It's strange. She's normally the one feeling protected. She forces herself to smile, a melancholy upturning of her mouth in sympathy for him but, after the smile fades and falters, she's left feeling just as lost as he. There is a moment's indecision, where she fights against her compulsion to explain herself and to apologise, but she can't see how that will be of any comfort to him when he's already looking so defeated.

"Goodnight," she whispers, and her body is half-turned away before she gives into impulsiveness and gently touches her fingers to the bend of his arm, squeezing it with light reassurance. He looks up like a reflex action, their eyes meet and, for all the will in the world, she cannot break away from the gaze he holds her in; it's killing her and bringing her back to life in an instant and she doesn't know whether to fall into it or run away as fast as her legs will carry her. She draws breath, deep, clarifying breath, and with it comes a blink of her eyes. The look is broken, and she walks away while she still can, heading for the door.

"Ruth," he whispers; that tiny, lost sound again. She stops, but doesn't turn around, afraid of what she'll see, what she'll do, if she does. "Ruth."

She releases the door handle, hand dropping limply to her side in a gesture of surrender. She wonders, if she stays like this long enough, whether he'll just talk to her back so she doesn't have to face him, but she knows how unfair of her that is.

"Stay for a drink," he whispers. "Please."

Her posture sags as she turns around, weary with the effort of fighting him and fighting herself. A fragile heart and a brilliant, frightened mind trapped inside her and waiting to be healed if only she'll allow it.

"I, I ca-"

"As friends, Ruth. You're allowed to have friends," he whispers, "you need them in a business like this."

She nods, slowly, looking at some indeterminate spot between her feet and his desk.

"And we're friends, are we not?" His words are still soft, melancholy, but there is now an intimacy behind them that wasn't there before. He waits until she nods again. "A drink then," he murmurs, "between friends."

He pushes himself off the edge of his desk and slowly moves towards the drinks tray he keeps at the back of his office; he's very aware of her eyes following his every move and it both thrills and terrifies him that she has agreed to stay.

"You can come in, Ruth." She's still taking refuge by the door and he worries she will bolt at any second.

"No, it's too...too much," she whispers and grips the door tightly between her fingers when his shoulders sag. "I-I just...not here, that's all."

He smiles in understanding, just happy in the knowledge that she does want to share his company. "I know a good place."

"I'm not surprised," she says, quietly, but there is a teasing edge to her words that wasn't there before.

--

The bar is quiet as they enter and she's relieved to see that he looks as nervous as she feels when they find a table and seat themselves at it. The drinks are ordered and have arrived before either of them has actually spoken and, as he sips his whisky, Harry wonders if a hotel bar was the right place to bring her.

"It's nice here," she ventures, eventually, unable to bear the tense silence anymore. She knows what he is thinking and, for once, she isn't hung up about the implications of being in a hotel. The word 'friendship' has given her a refuge and she is gladly clinging onto it.

"Yes, it is."

"So, what do friends talk about?" she asks, after a long pause, and it makes him laugh. She is just as out of practice at this as he is.

"I'm not really sure," he admits, and they are able to share a smile. "Let's see...the weather? No, that's terribly dull and far too English, even for us..." he trails off and starts muttering different topics under his breath then discarding them just as quickly and, by the time he looks across at her, she is laughing, softly.

"You're laughing at me," he states, amused and enraptured by the way her eyes shine as she laughs. He hasn't seen that look on her face for a long time.

"Yes, I am."

His answering laugh is enough to make her feel giddy and playful, a dangerous mix around him, but she reminds herself they are just here as friends, nothing more. She's getting good at lying to herself. The ice has been broken though and they are once more able to skirt the invisible line between friendship and something indefinable. It's enough, for now.

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**Please review ... there is another 20,000 plus words awaiting you xx**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks for reading, here's a little bit more fluff before S7 starts!**

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The weekend seems long and drawn out; more so that usual. She's not afraid to admit that she misses work when she's away from it but, more and more so, it's not _just_ work she's missing. Tuesday night is on her mind all the rest of the week and even more so through Saturday and Sunday, and she can't work out if that's thrilling or terrifying. She wonders if they know yet. Most have been busy since they returned from Havensworth, and caught up in themselves but, after a weekend to rest and refuel, she wonders whether she will walk into a Grid full of speculation and gossip. She practices telling them all what she tells herself. _We're just friends._

When Monday morning arrives, it seems as if nobody knows. Nothing is said, no looks exchanged. Blissful ignorance reigns, and she's happy like that. Mostly happy.

He hasn't said a word on the matter either. He doesn't know what to say and, further still, doesn't dare try. He sits, protected in his office, too afraid of scaring her away to speak. He doesn't speak when she drops the files in, save for a pleasant _hello_ and idle chitchat, and when she returns to collect them, he is too occupied with his phone call to rectify the situation. He wants to compliment her on a wonderful evening spent together, thank her for her companionship at a time he needed it more than ever, but he is painfully aware that it could all be too much, and so he says nothing.

By 6pm it's getting faintly ridiculous as she ties herself in knots, torn between avoiding him and forcing him to speak to her. She has to remind herself that this is what she wanted; only friendship. Anything else is too…is too…she's just not ready for anything else. She doesn't think she ever has been. Her mother would tell her she won't know unless she tries, but she's never been much of a risk taker.

It gets to the end of the day before they can speak properly. "Coffee," she announces, at 19.30 sharp, placing a Styrofoam cup on the desk. He looks up, and suddenly everything turns to gibberish inside her mind. "I, er, it's late. And you haven't left your desk yet."

He looks at his watch, and then at his body where it is cupped in the chair. "So it is," he observes, "and evidently I haven't," he continues, amused. "You're off home?"

"N-no. Still working. My coffee's on my desk." She's not sure why she volunteers that last part, but it seems important, as if it validates her assertion that she's not going anywhere fast.

"Then bring it in here," he suggests, casually, wondering if that was something he was supposed to pick up on or not. "I could do with a break."

She looks momentarily taken aback and it's clear she had not anticipated such a suggestion.

"Unless you've got too much to do," he adds quickly, seeing her fumble for a reply.

"N-no, um, no. H-haven't you? Got lots to do, I mean."

"Nothing that can't be put on hold for coffee. We can drink it out there, if you prefer," he adds, smiling. It makes her smile, too, knowing he remembers, and cares enough to recall her silly wishes.

She hovers by the side of her desk as they reach it, chewing her lip as she wonders where the appropriate place to sit is. Behind the desk seems too formal, a reminder that they are still at work, employer and employee, but there is a lingering worry that lounging against the front of it will seem too...provocative. After all, she reasons, they're only friends and she wouldn't want to give him the wrong impression. She settles for a compromise and leans against the side of the desk, casually, and watches him as he perches on Zaf's desk and sips his coffee. Somewhere between his office and here, he's loosened his tie and opened the top button of his shirt. It gives him a dishevelled but desirable appearance and she has to admit to herself that she likes it.

She sees him wince as he takes a small sip of hot coffee and a soft smile curves her lips. "It's terrible isn't it?"

"Yes," he admits, truthfully. It really is disgusting and has probably been stewing all day. "The company more than makes up for it though."

He has a momentary panic that he has said too much, pushed too far, too fast, and he wonders how to backtrack when, miraculously, she smiles. It is brief but it is genuine and it does more to lift his spirits than anything that day.

"We should do something about this," he muses, as he takes another sip.

He realises his mistake too late and she is already flustered. "Er, a-about u-."

"I meant the coffee, Ruth," he clarifies, in time to save them both an awkward conversation.

Her relief is palpable and it saddens him, slightly. "We could always make a fresh pot next time."

It's her way of letting him know that she's open to the idea of them doing this again and he finds it ridiculous how hard his heart is beating as her words sink in. It isn't even a definite invitation; there's no time or date mentioned and he knows it will be up to her to instigate it, just like he knows that he will be waiting, when she does.

He drains his cup and drops it in the waste paper basket by his feet. "You know where to find me," he tells her with a small half-smile before disappearing back to his office.

--

It takes her a week and a half to find the courage to casually invite him to join her for a coffee. He is stood close to her desk, having just returned a stack of files to her, when she asks and he tries not to smile too much as he accepts.

"One condition," he states, looking deadly serious all of a sudden and she can feel her heart pounding that he is going to spoil things by wanting it to be a date. "We go out for coffee. I'm not drinking that swill again."

"Not even for me?" she teases as the relief sweeps through her and she blames the adrenaline rush for making her flirt.

"There are many things I would do for you Ruth, but drinking that coffee again is not one of them." The words are teasing but there is an underlying sentiment that both excites and terrifies her, in equal measure.

"You have somewhere in mind, I presume?" she changes tack, not trusting herself to reply sensibly.

He nods and tells her that he knows a place not too far away. She gives him a small smile and picks up her bag and coat. "Lead on."

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**More soon. Please review. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry it's taken so long to update...we got sidetracked by the as-yet-unfinished-Halloween-fic.**  


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The place he picks is small, independent; he isn't one for generic coffee-shop chains, no matter how good the coffee is, and neither is she. It's quiet, so quiet it's almost empty, and she laughs to herself as she thinks everyone else is probably either in Starbucks or, given the lateness of the hour, in bed.

He takes her order as he asks her to find them a seat; not a hard task when they're all so empty, although it takes longer than necessary as she flits indecisively between the cosy corner sofa she'd really like to sit on, and the colder, more business-like bar stools lining the window.

"We're standing then?" he enquires, teasingly. He's quicker that she anticipated.

"Er, no, I…what's that?" She nods her head to a white plate, nestled between the two oversized mugs on the tray.

"Muffins, Ruth."

"Y-yes, but it's ten o'clock, Harry."

"So?" He enjoying this; she's amusing him in her own unique way.

"You shouldn't eat so soon before bed time. Makes you dream."

"Who says I'm thinking of going to bed anytime soon?" he asks. His tone is innocent, and so is his intention, but it doesn't stop the sparkle of mischief which shines at her from his eye. "And who says I don't dream, anyway?"

She huffs, loudly, and the effort she's employing to force down her smile is visible as the muscles in her cheek twitch. She mutters something which sounds like _bloody insufferable man_ and rocks from one foot to the other.

"So, are we going to stand here all night?"

"Er, no, I-"

"Good," he replies, before she can continue, and uses the motion of his head and his advancing stride to shepherd her to the sofas.

He shuffles into the corner, the tan leather moulding around him and drinking his body into the soft cushioning, but his body faces her as he sets the tray to one side and places her mug in front of her.

She looks decidedly less comfortable, both acutely aware of how close they are sat to each other, and yet of the sizeable expanse of sofa between them, and faces forward, hands fiddling with each other in her lap.

"Blueberry or chocolate chip?"

"What, sorry?"

"Muffin. Which do you want?"

"Oh I, er-" She's about to say she doesn't mind, but the look in his eyes tells her she had better choose else he'll only insist on it anyway. "Blueberry, thank you."

"Sure you won't dream?" he teases. She feels the warmth rush to her cheeks and prays it doesn't show; she dreams every night, and always of him.

"I'll take my chances," she mutters, and is relieved to find her voice steadier than she expects. She lifts her coffee cup and sips at it in place of finding anything more to say.

"Good?" he asks.

"Yes. Thank you. How much do I…?"

"My treat," he assures her, and somehow, without even thinking, his hand is on top of hers, stopping her from reaching for her purse.

The sudden contact is unexpected for both of them, but not unwelcome, and his fingers trail lightly over the back of her hand as he pulls away, aware that any sudden movement might break the surreal nanosecond of calm which surrounds them. He rests his hand an inch from hers, fingers splayed against cool leather cushioning, ready to be touched, intertwined, and held, should she dare.

"So," she mumbles, in a rush of air, desperately trying to distract herself from the quiver running through her insides, "did we ever decide what friends talk about?"

"No," he laughs, "but you spent much of the last…" There is an ugly pause where it is far too apparent that he has to force the word _date_ to remain in his mouth. "…the last evening rubbishing my taste in films."

"I didn't say there was anything wrong with them, I was just surprised in your choice."

"James Bond is an icon," he protests, vehemently. "Besides," he whispers, and leans conspiratorially closer, "don't tell me you wouldn't watch Sean Connery for two hours."

She forces herself to look indignant, but fears a hot, crimson blush has betrayed her, and his laugh confirms as much.

"See." He is triumphant in his successful prediction, a smug smile on his face, but the underlying emotion is so gentle and seductively charming that she has to remind herself to breathe. "No woman can resist a spy."

_No_, she thinks. _They can't_. "Or an older man," she mutters, before she can stop herself. "Er, S-Sean Connery, I mean. He looks good for his age."

"Of course," he concedes, graciously, but he hasn't failed to notice that she can no longer meet his eye. "Any other octogenarians you've got your eye on?"

"Harry!" she squeaks, in annoyance, but her sentence falls flat with a meek, "he isn't 80 yet."

"I'm only teasing, Ruth. You'd do the same."

"I don't know who you fancy," she counters, and immediately regrets it. He watches as she closes her eyes in frustration at her own big mouth. They both know she knows the answer is her.

"I think that's a topic best saved for another time," he whispers.

She doesn't know how to respond to the implication that there will be more nights like this, despite being silently thrilled at the prospect, and drinks her coffee in lieu of a response. She watches him over the rim of her coffee cup as he takes a comically large bite out of the chocolate muffin that's been left untouched until now.

"Hungry?" she asks, amused.

It takes him a few seconds to swallow his mouthful. "Very," he mumbles, worried he might have muffin stuck to his teeth, "I had to skip lunch to meet with the DG."

She gives him a look which is part exasperation and part concern. "You could have asked me to save you a sandwich from the cart."

"You're not the sandwich girl, Ruth," he answers and reaches for the napkin to wipe the crumbs from around his mouth.

"No, but I am a friend," she states, quietly, and watches as his lips curve into a smile. Her hand has reached up to his face and her thumb has brushed an errant crumb from his plump bottom lip before her brain has recognised what it is she has done. His eyes hold genuine surprise, when she meets them, and something else that she doesn't want to analyse too closely. "Even if you are a messy eater," she mumbles, breathlessly, as she snatches her hand back and has a stern word with herself about inappropriate behaviour.

He's lost for words. Her simple touch has affected him more than he had ever dreamed it would and he doesn't trust himself not to ask her to do it again. Instead, he makes a half-hearted joke at his own expense and picks up his coffee.

She looks at her watch and then nervously looks at him. "I-it's late. I should probably get home."

He knows she feels awkward and embarrassed at what happened and he wants to tell her that it's ok, he doesn't mind and that it's quite possibly the sexiest thing that has happened to him in a long time, but he doesn't. He nods his understanding and together they head for the door. Harry waits until they are outside before offering her a lift home. He knows that she'll refuse it, just like she knows that he'll offer to walk her to the bus stop instead.

"It's the wrong direction for you to go, Harry. Don't worry, I'll be fine."

He's disappointed but not surprised. "Take care, then," he tells her, with a small smile.

"I will," she promises as her hand reaches out and gives his arm a gentle squeeze. "Goodnight Harry."

"Night Ruth," he whispers, "sweet dreams."

She blushes at the comment and hope the darkness covers it; she has no doubt that Harry will feature in her dreams tonight; his lips pressed against her thumb, just like a moment ago; pressed against her body, just like she wants them to be. She can feel his eyes on her as she walks down the street and she can't help but glance back at him.

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**Please review xx**


	4. Chapter 4

**More OFL goodness to bring some much needed post 7.8 cheer :)**  


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In the morning, she is surprised to find a discretely wrapped parcel waiting for her on her desk; brown paper and string, very traditional.

She tugs at the bow and cotton fibres slide against each other as the bow unties and falls away, and she carefully folds back the crisp paper. Inside is a book, the cover of which she cannot see for the folded note which sits atop it.

_To decipher the thoughts the muffin awakened. H x_

She blushes and cannot hide it. If only he knew what thoughts he and that stupid, bloody muffin had awakened. They certainly need no deciphering. She lifts up the note and looks at the front cover: _The A-Z of Dream Analysis._ Cute. Very cute.

Her eyes wander upwards and to her side, almost without realising she is doing so, and finds him gazing out from his office; he makes no attempt to hide the fact that he was waiting, watching. She smiles her acknowledgement, her lips pursed and her cheeks full, eyes holding the mischief she constantly forces herself to suppress.

The same smile creeps back in morning briefing during a sly reference to Martin Luther King's _I Have A Dream_ speech, and Harry catches her eye. It's all she can do not to laugh like a school girl trading hidden secrets, despite the severity of what they discuss in these meetings.

--

At lunch time, another parcel arrives on another desk, a sandwich, wrapped in cellophane and sticky labels, and he sits down, peels it open and chances a glance at her desk. She's purposely not watching. He pulls out a brown triangle and, between the two rounds, is a small note.

_Wouldn't want you to resort to late night snacking as a force of habit._

_Your friendly sandwich girl x_

He chuckles, takes a bite, and opens up his computer.

--

She is focussed, resolutely, on keeping her eyes away from his office, and is startled when a message pops up. She knows, without looking, who it will be from, and is _almost_ tempted to leave it unread.

_--Internal mail personal--_

_--Secure intranet--_

_From: Harry Pearce_

_To: Ruth Evershed_

_Subject: Dinner_

_Date: 11 August 2006 14.01_

_Tasty. But I'll still need dinner. 7pm? x_

She panics. Dinner is so much more than coffee. Do friends have dinner? Dinner is a date. Dinner _was_ a date.

_--Internal mail personal--_

_--Secure intranet--_

_From: Ruth Evershed_

_To: Harry Pearce_

_Subject: Re: Dinner_

_Date: 11 August 2006 14.05_

_I have plans. Sorry. x_

_--Internal mail personal--_

_--Secure intranet--_

_From: Harry Pearce_

_To: Ruth Evershed_

_Subject: Re: Dinner_

_Date: 11 August 2006 14.07_

_You told me you were working late. x_

_--Internal mail personal--_

_--Secure intranet--_

_From: Ruth Evershed_

_To: Harry Pearce_

_Subject: Re: Dinner_

_Date: 11 August 2006 14.08_

_Last time I checked, that was a plan. You want the SOLIS files finished. x_

She waits for a new reply to arrive, dreading what he might say to her. She knows she is being unreasonable, but it's her typical defence; a habit of a lifetime which she fears it's too late to change.

"Stop making excuses."

The voice behind her makes her jump, and she realises she's once again been focused too intently on her screen.

"I want dinner more than I want those files finished," he continues, in a low whisper. "Friends eat," he adds, as if he knows.

She really has no option but to accept and they both know it. He's neatly trapped her into having dinner with him and she realises that she is less angry about it than she feels she should be.

"Can we go somewhere less...," she fumbles for the right word, "formal?"

He knows she is worried about going somewhere too intimate, a place where romance might blossom, and tries to set her mind at ease. "I'll let you decide the venue. Be ready to go by 7."

--

It's just after 7pm when he approaches her desk, to find her waiting for him. "I got caught on a call, sorry."

"It's fine," she assures him, silently berating herself for having spent the last few minutes fretting that he had changed his mind. "I picked a small bistro I know. Is that ok?"

"Yes. Are we walking or...?'

"Walking," she confirms and collects her handbag as she stands up. He silently follows her across the Grid and out of the building, almost afraid that someone or something will ruin their plans. As they cross the road and walk side by side, he gives a sigh of relief.

At her inquisitive look, he explains. "I'm just relieved to have made it out of the building before a crisis unfolds."

She laughs, briefly, and he enjoys the sound of it. "If we get redflashed before my food arrives, I'm not going to forgive you."

The place she has chosen is small and cosy, intimate enough for them not to have to worry about other people listening into their conversation but not so intimate that she feels uncomfortable. She is pleasantly surprised to find that the conversation flows easily between them; the walk has not only exorcised some of her demons about this being too date-like, but has given them time to get over any lingering awkwardness. She's feeling slightly tipsy by the time the main courses arrive and is lightly admonishing Harry for refilling her wine glass rather generously, as the waiter places their respective meals in front of them both.

"I'm going to have a terrible hangover tomorrow if you keep that up."

He looks at her but keeps pouring. "I'll bring you some aspirin then."

She shoots him a look and mutters, "Impossible man," but she is smiling as she picks up her glass and takes a sip of its contents.

Opposite her, he returns the bottle to the centre of the table and picks up his cutlery, pushing the cooked tomato off the top of his meat, and running the steak knife through his sirloin with ease.

"Nice. This is a good little place," he comments, as he finishes his mouthful.

She nods in agreement, but is busy fiddling with the side salad that accompanies her jacket potato and chicken. "Do you want my onion?" she asks, noticing him loading a forkful of his own fried onions into his mouth.

"Don't you want it?"

"No, not a fan of raw onion."

"Do you want my fried ones?"

"No, it's ok." She loops the rings of salad onion onto her fork, and passes them to his plate, and he moves the tomato yet further to one side to accommodate them. "You're not going to eat that, are you?"

"No. You can have it if you want it."

She picks it up, and sets it down on her plate. "Thanks."

He laughs. "Are we quite finished, or would you like steak and chips while I have your meal?"

She shoots him a look from under her eyelashes, and pops and forkful of chicken into her mouth. Her attempt to remain serious whilst chewing and trying not to laugh is adorable, and he finds himself leaning forwards on his elbows, just so he can tilt his head and still look at her half-obscured face. She smiles, coyly. The wine has made her feel playful, flirty, which in turn has made him a danger – not because he can't be trusted, but because she cannot trust herself to maintain her façade of self-preservation. She closes her eyes a minute, counts to ten, and pulls herself together; it's only a plate of food to eat, and a man she speaks to every day to talk to – it's not so difficult, is it?

"If you keep staring, your food'll go cold," she admonishes, trying to keep her voice steady and her tone light.

"Might be worth it," he teases, before biting into an enormous chip. "Happy?" he mumbles, through the potato.

"Ecstatic."

"I aim to please."

--

"I still can't believe you stole the last brownie from the bottom of the sundae."

"You shouldn't have stolen the third wafer then, should you?" she challenges, eyes sparkling. Somewhere in the past half hour or so, she has forgotten her promise to herself to stop with the wine and have some water and the results are both wonderful and heart-stopping.

"You should have quicker reflexes."

"You should have been a gentleman."

"I'm always a gentleman."

She makes a small scoffing sound, as if to signal her indignation. They both know the other isn't angry, but they're both enjoying it too much to stop, either.

"You have to let me show it."

She raises an eyebrow, and he continues.

"Well, you always refuse a lift home, for a start."

"I do n-"

"Yes you do."

"Fine, offer me one."

"Ruth, can I give you a life home?" he asks, full of pseudo politeness as his eyes glitter with the thrill of such a harmless but quick-fired argument with her.

"Of course," she whispers, and it's only as the banter dies, and he texts his driver, that she realises how cleverly she's been played.

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**Please review xx**


	5. Chapter 5

**Sorry it's been a bit longer than we intended - hope you enjoy.**

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Her nerves resurface as she presses herself into the cool leather of the backseat, despite the heady concoction of the wine and the Irish coffee he ordered them both. He slides in beside her, nods to the driver and almost instantly the car is starting to move. She has become very aware of her body; her chest seems to be heaving, her cheeks are flushed and her fingers are itching to stretch the few centimetres needed to brush against his fingertips. Her eyes close and she desperately tries to regroup before she does something she knows she will regret. She can feel his eyes on her and forces herself to meet his gaze.

"I've had a lovely evening," she whispers. It isn't what she had expected herself to say and, although it is the truth, the surprise at her honesty shows on her face.

His eyes are warm and his elation is barely suppressed as he leans sideways and almost touches his shoulder against hers. "So did I." She can feel the heat from his body and half wishes she had the courage to tell him that she wants to do it again. She hesitates too long, lost in the fantasy of what it would be like, and, by the time she's decided to say something, the moment has passed; he has moved back to his own side of the car and is staring out of the window. They remain in contemplative, but not oppressive, silence until the car turns onto her road.

"I think friends have dinner fairly regularly," he says. There is an air of nonchalance about him as he still stares out of the window, and she can't help the smile that tugs at the corners of her mouth.

"Is that right?"

"Yes. I think it's in the rulebook." He's looking at her now and the teasing sparkle of his eyes is compelling. "And we are rule followers, are we not?"

She snorts and knows, without having to see, that he has raised an eyebrow at her, silently requesting an explanation. "_I'm_ a rule follower Harry, I'll give you that… but you? I'm not so sure about that one."

"Been reading my file, have you?" he teases, and is pleased to find she reddens at the accusation.

"Never," she manages to whisper. "I just know you too well."

The car pulls into the kerb outside her house just as he leans towards her again. "Is that so? You'll have to keep me on the straight and narrow then," he murmurs, tantalisingly close to her ear. "If anyone can, it's you."

She can't think of an appropriate response to that. Especially not when she has consumed quite so much alcohol, and he is sitting quite so close. Instead, she says the only thing she can think of that won't land her in trouble. "Night, Harry."

He watches her for a second longer and then reaches across her body to the door handle. Her quiet gasp as he brushes against her is enough to let him know just how much effect he has on her. He pushes the door open, already knowing that she won't know how to cope if he walks her to the door, and pulls back to look at her.

"Goodnight, Ruth. Sweet dreams." The latter is said with a small wink and it is enough to make her laugh and relax a little. She takes a deep breath, ostensibly savouring his scent as it lingers in the air around her, and then smiles at him before climbing out of the car.

--

For hours that night, she lies awake, thinking. She thinks about him, about her, and about them. She thinks about which would be more stupid; to waste this opportunity for fear of being vulnerable, or to seize it with both hands, and risk all that goes with it. It could be the start of something beautiful, or the start of a beautiful disaster. She thinks, and she thinks, and she still doesn't know.

It is not too difficult to imagine that something could have happened tonight, if she'd wanted; if she'd let it. It scares her, in fact, to realise just how little it took to lower her inhibitions around him, but she's not sure she's frightened enough to stop…or rather, there's something more potent at work than just fear. She's still walking the same fine line she's been for ages, still balancing in the middle of her high wire, but he's no longer just spectating from the sideline as she hovers in the centre; he's shaken the rope, and now she's wobbling more than ever, wondering if he'll really be there to catch her. Trouble is, she's not sure she can bear to think about what happens if he isn't.

By 5am, after tossing and turning, she has made a deal with herself. Right now, she is happy; happier than she's been in a long, long time. She knows it's because of him. She knows that there is every chance that he can make that happiness last a life time but, equally, a chance that such happiness won't even last the year. So she promises something she's not used to doing; she'll do nothing. She's never done _nothing _– she's always been active in some form; avoiding him, hiding from herself and her feelings. But not now. She promises herself that she won't run, or hide, or make excuses any longer – if he wants to be her friend, in the true sense of the word, then she will let him. She won't confine him to snatched chats on the Grid, keeping him at arms length. She won't excuse herself from social situations, and will continue to accept his invitations. She doesn't promise to open up though – that, she can't do. _That_ would be doing something. _That_ would be her undoing. She won't go running to him with open arms, letting herself be vulnerable. If he cares for her, if he wants to be with her, she tells herself, then he'll accept her friendship as the token it is; the token of all she can offer right now.

* * *

**Please review xx**

**_Beautiful Disaster is from a Kelly Clarkson song._**


	6. Chapter 6

_**Sorry about the email formatting - we wanted a double line space between each email, but FF doesn't allow it, so we've had to put a full stop in to separate them!**_

* * *

She's relatively successful at keeping to her promise. As long as she can keep in mind that they are only friends, being around him comes easily. Friendship is safe and comfortable, and she doesn't even mind the fact that, for the past two and a half weeks, he's taken to upping the ante in finding ever cuter ways to snatch moments amongst their busy schedule.

"I keep finding you in here." His voice is soft and warm and she can feel the hairs on the back of her neck stand to attention.

"Not surprising since you've followed me in here every afternoon for the last week," she tells him, amusedly, and turns to pass him a cup of tea.

He takes the proffered cup and lounges against the wall opposite her in the small kitchenette, watching her as she faffs about with her own cup. "I'm outraged by that accusation." She doesn't have to look to know he is teasing. "It's just coincidence that we both happen to be thirsty at the same time of an afternoon."

She turns to face him and gives him a look which lets him know that she doesn't believe him for one second. "Is that the best you could come up with?" she asks, her smile half hidden behind the rim of her mug.

"On such short notice, yes." He pokes his tongue out at her to emphasise his point and she has to stifle the peel of laughter that wants to escape from her throat at the sight of it.

They drink their tea in silence for a few moments, each happy to just be in the others company for a few stolen minutes. "I'm hiding," she confides, after a few minutes, and watches as his eyebrow quirked.

"From?" He knows her well enough that it isn't work she will be hiding from and wonders which one of their colleagues is annoying her enough for her to take refuge in the kitchen.

"Jo."

"Ah," he says and nods agreeably, despite not having the slightest clue as to what has been going on. "Are you going to elaborate?" he asks when she doesn't fill him in.

"Oh, it's nothing really. She just won't stop wittering on about the cinema and the film that she and Zaf went to see the other night. It's a 'must see' apparently." She rolls her eyes for effect and he wonders why she is so worked up about something so benign.

"Don't you want to see it?"

"Not alone," she mutters, quietly, and he suddenly understands.

"At least you wouldn't have to fight over the popcorn," he jokes, poorly, to try and stop himself from declaring that she never has to be alone again if she doesn't want to be.

"Good point," she whispers as she hides behind her coffee cup and he is almost sure that he hears traces of disappointment in her voice.

He dinks the last of his tea and moves to swill the dirty mug in the sink. "I'm sure there are plenty of people you could go to the cinema with, Ruth." Although he doesn't say it, she knows exactly who he has in mind. He's just letting her work out if it's what she really wants.

"Er, well, yes, I- I'm sure there is," she garbles, still caught off guard, despite being unsurprised at the invitation of his words.

--

It feels like a long three days before they speak again. A meeting keeps him in Whitehall for the whole of Wednesday and Thursday and, on Friday, it's as if someone is playing with them; Zaf, or Jo, or Adam, or Malcolm deciding _now_ is an urgent time to talk, just as they've finally found the time to escape for a coffee. The time is made longer by the fact that she knows they've half arranged to meet outside of work again, and she longs to know what's going on. She needs to prepare, and it's not just an outfit, but a whole mentality, which needs composing.

_--Internal mail personal--_

_--Secure intranet--_

_From: Harry Pearce_

_To: Ruth Evershed_

_Subject: Tonight_

_Date: 25 August 2006 15.58_

_Bloody Nora. Do I need to find that lot some work to do or something? I'll pick you up at 7pm_

_x_

_ .  
_

_--Internal mail personal--_

_--Secure intranet--_

_From: Ruth Evershed _

_To: Harry Pearce_

_Subject: Re: Tonight_

_Date: 25 August2006 16.02_

_I think you mean bloody Adam, Zaf, Jo, and Malcolm. Is Ros the only one who doesn't have a stupid question to ask today?_

_I thought you were picking me up at 7.45pm?_

_x_

_ ._

_--Internal mail personal--_

_--Secure intranet--_

_From: Harry Pearce_

_To: Ruth Evershed_

_Subject: Re: Tonight_

_Date: 25 August 2006 16.07_

_Change of plan. You have T-minus 3 hours to be ready._

_X_

_ ._

_--Internal mail personal--_

_--Secure intranet--_

_From: Ruth Evershed _

_To: Harry Pearce_

_Subject: Re: Tonight_

_Date: 25 August 2006 16.11_

_I'd better hope my boss doesn't set me too much more work before I leave then._

_x_

_ ._

_--Internal mail personal--_

_--Secure intranet--_

_From: Harry Pearce_

_To: Ruth Evershed_

_Subject: Re: Tonight_

_Date: 25 August 2006 16.14_

_I hear he's a nice man. I'm sure he won't. But if you don't stop bloody emailing, you'll never leave._

_X_

_ ._

_--Internal mail personal--_

_--Secure intranet--_

_From: Ruth Evershed _

_To: Harry Pearce_

_Subject: Re: Tonight_

_Date: 25 August 2006 16.19_

_You started it._

_x_

_ ._

_--Internal mail personal--_

_--Secure intranet--_

_From: Harry Pearce_

_To: Ruth Evershed_

_Subject: Re: Tonight_

_Date: 25 August 2006 16.22_

_So, then you should stop._

_x_

_ ._

_--Internal mail personal--_

_--Secure intranet--_

_From: Ruth Evershed _

_To: Harry Pearce_

_Subject: Re: Tonight_

_Date: 25 August 2006 16.25_

_Oh, that's how it works is it?_

_x_

_ ._

_--Internal mail personal--_

_--Secure intranet--_

_From: Harry Pearce _

_To: Ruth Evershed_

_Subject: Re: Tonight_

_Date: 25 August 2006 16.30_

_Yes, turn the damn computer off, go home, and go and get ready._

_x_

_ ._

She makes a deliberate show, for his eyes only, of turning off the computer. She knows he is watching from his office as she over exaggerates the movements needed to turn off the screen and clamber into her light cardigan, and when she finds the nerve to turn round, he is laughing, softly, at her. Biting down her own smile, she shakes her head, grabs up her bag, and heads for the Pods.

* * *

**_If you've read it, please review._**


	7. Chapter 7

**We promise there will be more regular updates of this fic from now on.**

* * *

He's pleasantly surprised to find that she is ready when he arrives on her doorstep at 7pm sharp. She ushers him into the hallway and he watches as she finishes stuffing tissues and an assortment of other things into a small sized handbag.

"Where are we going?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out," he tells her and laughs as she rolls her eyes at him.

"Well, for your sake, I hope I'm dressed appropriately," she warns and then turns slightly pink as his eyes scan her body. She feels absurd and moves her weight from one foot to the other as his eyes sweep over her cream coloured top with its plunging, but not too revealing neckline, and down to her black linen trousers, and on to her sandals before dragging his eyes back the way they had come.

"You look..." he trails of unsure of how he's supposed to end the sentence. Would a friend tell her she looks beautiful? He thinks not and is disappointed that he can't pay her a full compliment, when she deserves one. In the end he settles for something from the middle ground and smiles warmly at her as he ends it with, "lovely, Ruth."

She blushes and fiddles with the strap of her handbag. She's never been good with accepting compliments, especially ones from Harry, and desperately wants to move the focus off of herself. "You, er, look nice too," she mutters, awkwardly, and hopes that he will save them both any further embarrassment.

He can read her like a book sometimes and knows he needs to get them back to safe ground. "We should go. Don't want to be late."

She smiles, and follows his lead.

"Taxi?" she asks, at the sight of it parked outside her driveway. It's not unusual for them to return by taxi, but they're normally taken by Harry's driver. Something about this now separates it entirely from work and, as terrifying as that is, she finds she rather likes it.

"Yes."

"Are we drinking?"

"I told you, I'm giving nothing away."

"I don't like surprises."

"Don't you trust me?"

There is an overly long silence at his last question – the trouble is, she doesn't know if she does. With her life, yes. With her heart, she doesn't know.

"Ruth?"

"Yes, sorry. Just not when I know you're up to something."

"Sensible woman."

He holds open the door to the taxi; the brush of his hand against the small of her back as he guides her in is electric for them both, and it's with regret that he removes it to close the door and whisper further instructions to the taxi driver.

"It's not an op, you know?" she mutters, pouting at him as he climbs in beside her.

"Patience."

"Can I guess?"

"No."

She makes a small noise of frustration at his poker face and realises that even if she tries, he won't give it up.

"Tell you what, you can tell me what you'd like it to be, and we'll see if they're the same thing."

"That's not the point. They're not likely to match are they?"

"So. I'll know exactly where to take you next time."

She makes the same noise of frustration again; this time, because he is far too good at this game of tripping her up and tricking her into these situations. If she doesn't answer, there is the embarrassment of providing a reason why she won't, and if she does answer, there is the embarrassment that he knows how much she has thought about this. She closes her eyes and tries desperately to think of the clever way out of this which she knows must exits.

"Maybe there won't be a next time if you keep insisting on being so secretive," she challenges. She is exasperated but elated, infuriated yet completely infatuated, and it's a funny sort of combination only he has ever made her feel.

"We'll see," he mutters, calmly, and she wishes for the millionth time that his self confidence in situations like this wasn't so damn attractive. She still marvels at the way he changes from gently passionate to charmingly cocky, from quietly unsure to blindingly quick-witted and wonders if she'll ever get used to the range of genuine sides of himself he is prepared to show to her.

"We will," she replies, but her poker face is far less polished that his, and the traces of a smile are evident at the corners of her lips.

--

"I know where we are," she whispers as the taxi pulls up at the kerbside and Harry leans forward to pay the fare. "This is the Riverside Studios Cinema."

"So it is," he murmurs as he collects his change. "I'm glad to see your observational skills are still second to none."

He has opened the door and stepped out onto the pavement before she can answer back and has no choice but to follow him out of the taxi. "Why are we here?"

"To see a film," he tells her matter of factly, and chuckles as she rolls her eyes at him. He grabs her hand, on impulse, and drags her inside, only realising as they queue for tickets that he is still holding her hand in his. He is buoyed by the fact that she hasn't reclaimed it back, and wonders if she is as shocked at his actions as he is. He's caught in a dilemma about what to do; if he let's go of her hand now, he worries that she might see it as some sort of rejection but, then again, what if she isn't happy that he's touching her? His dilemma is solved as they reach the head of the line and he needs to reach into his jacket pocket for his wallet.

"Two please," he tells the woman behind the desk, and hands over a twenty pound note.

"There's a double feature tonight, 'From Russia With Love' is followed by 'Goldfinger', that ok?"

"Fine," he answers, automatically, only realising after he's got the tickets that he hasn't checked if it's alright with Ruth. He hopes she's not hungry. When he turns to her to ask if it's alright he can see the amusement clearly on her face.

"You brought me to see James Bond?!"

"I brought you to see Sean Connery," he corrects and ushers her towards the concession stand. They bicker good naturedly all the way through ordering their shared popcorn and drinks and are still debating who was the better Bond – Sean Connery or Roger Moore – as they find some seats in the middle of the small theatre.

"Of course Connery is the better Bond, Harry."

"You're just saying that because you fancy him!" he teases as he shoots her a flirtatious look.

"Just for that I'm not going to share the popcorn with you," she tells him, indignantly, and clutches the bag of popcorn tightly against her with one hand as the other grabs a handful of popcorn and stuffs it in her mouth.

"Very mature, Ruth," he admonishes, playfully, and tries to lean over and take some of the snack. She moves it to one side and the hand that is feeding popcorn into her mouth gets knocked by him sending popcorn flying everywhere.

"That's your own mouthful you just wasted."

"I thought you weren't sharing."

"Damn."

He laughs and bends down to her ear. "Now, now, play nice."

She has to close her eyes to fight against the sensations and images his words momentarily create, and when she opens them, he's looking at her quite seriously, and she almost doesn't know if she can breathe.

"We should…um…film…seats."

He smiles, just briefly, but it's warm and sincere, and she knows he can tell just how overwhelmed she sometimes is. He waits for her to move, and follows closely behind her, his body all but touching hers.

She shivers at knowing he is so close and, as they take their seats, he spreads his knees just a little, so his leg rests against hers, enjoying the contact it brings. The lights are still up and, if she is surprised or annoyed by his gesture, it doesn't show on her face. Instead, she remains almost impassive, the ghost of a smile imprinted across her features as she observes the people around them with almost studious dedication, waiting for the lights to fall.

* * *

**More soon... x**


	8. Chapter 8

**Enjoy it...(and yes, dear readers, we know we're teases, but you already knew that, too, so are you really surprised?)**  


* * *

They are a good half way through _From Russia with Love_ before he can bring himself to make any kind of gesture towards her. The popcorn has been put aside for a moment, set on the floor, and her forearm lies of the armrest between them. Gently, so as not to seem like he's muscling her out, he moves his own arm along side hers, the backs of his fingers brushing against hers. She parts them a little, letting him absentmindedly tug at them as they lightly intertwine.

She doesn't dare look at him. It's taking all of her willpower to convince herself that this is perfectly ok, and that she doesn't need to reclaim her hand. Friends can hold hands, yes, but she's not so sure that they gently play with each other's fingers, and she's definitely not convinced they send one's stomach into freefall with every new touch…but if she doesn't look at him, then perhaps she won't see the way he's watching their joined hands, rather than the screen, and the way he's smiling softly as he traces a finger around her silver ring…and then, perhaps, it won't be quite so much for her to take. How long they are sat with their fingers entwined, she's not sure but what she does know is that, when he leans over and whispers that he has to go to the bathroom and disentangles their fingers, she feels bereft.

Her mind is no longer on the film - it hasn't been since he first touched her – instead, her thoughts are consumed with him and she frets about what will happen when he gets back to his seat. Will he reclaim her hand and carry on tracing his fingers over her skin or will he decide that they have gone far enough for this evening? She begins to fidget in her seat as her mind takes her round in circles, until the person next to her shoots her a dirty look for shuffling about so much. Chastised but still fidgety she remembers the popcorn and busies herself with finding the bag and eating some of it. She looks at the screen and tries to figure out what's going on as she munches on the popcorn; she's far too busy rolling her eyes as James Bond seduces the girl on screen to watch what she's doing and, as a result, ends up dropping most of the popcorn in her hand down her top.

"Oh bloody hell," she mutters, quietly, and shoves the bag back on the floor before pulling the neck of her top out and peering down it to locate the errant pieces of corn. She reaches down to her cleavage to pick it out just as Harry returns to his seat.

"Dare I ask what you're doing?" he asks, clearly amused as she freezes.

One hand is still down her top as she looks at him. "I, er, I dropped some popcorn," she whispers and is torn between removing her hand altogether and fishing around for the small pieces of scratchy popcorn.

"Need a hand?" he asks, eyes glittering with mischief, as he stares at her. Her jaw has dropped at his brazen question and all she can do is squeak his name.

"Harry!"

"Sssssssssh!" their annoyed neighbour hisses at them and they both look contrite at having being told off.

He leaves it a couple of minutes and then leans over to her. His shoulder rubs against hers as he murmurs, quietly, to her, "Sorry. I was only teasing you, Ruth."

"I know," she whispers and before she can talk herself out of it she's reached across for his hand and has squeezed his fingers reassuringly. When she doesn't pull back, he threads their fingers together again.

"Ruth..."

"Ssssh!"

"Oh be quiet yourself," Harry tells their nosey neighbour and carries on regardless. "Shall we get out of here?"

Keen to avoid an all out war with other theatre goers, she nods and happily follows him out of the screen. He's not let go of her hand and she's a lot giddier about that than she thinks she should be. "You didn't want to watch the end?" she asks when they're back in the foyer, trying to act normal, despite the fact that they are now in public holding hands.

"No. I'd much rather be able to talk to you when I like and not get shushed for it. Dinner?"

"Lovely," she replies and they stroll outside to find a taxi. "We'll watch a DVD next time. That way my clumsiness won't get us into quite so much trouble!"

"Yes, and you won't have to save popcorn for later by stuffing it in your bra," he returns, dead pan, just as a taxi stops.

"Funny man," she retorts, meekly, at a loss for anything else to say that won't lead them into forbidden territory.

He opens the door for her to climb inside the car and murmurs, "I have my moments."

--

The restaurant, when they arrive, is crowded and full and even Harry's charm and the promise of a sizeable tip fails to reduce the waiting time for a table.

"It doesn't matter, we'll just go," she whispers, for at least the fourth time.

"Nonsense. I told you I'd take you for dinner."

"Honestly, Harry. It's fine. I'm full of popcorn."

"So's your blouse," he teases.

She shoots him a filthy sideways look and he finally grabs her hands and leads them away from the Maître De.

"Fine, I have a new plan," he informs her in soft, hushed tones.

She raises an eyebrow and waits for an answer, pouting when he doesn't immediately oblige.

"I know a place where we can finish our film and the food is…well, where there's food!"

She laughs, rather too loudly considering the refined atmosphere of the place in which they still stand, amused by the idea that he's offering to cook for her and inwardly thrilled at the intimacy of something as simple as a night in front of the TV.

* * *

**More soon if you review xx**


	9. Chapter 9

**Having seen this done else where, we thought we'd try something new. We're a little bit late for National Delurking Week, but we know from the reader stats just how many individual readers we get compared to the number of reviews and so, in line with other people on fanfic, we'd like to encourage you to share your thoughts, delurk and review and, in return, for each first time reviewer (please tell us you are a first timer) we'll write a short RH ficlet (100-200 words) based on a prompt of their choice, e.g. "chocolate biscuit."

* * *

**Hmmm," he says, thoughtfully, as he pops his head around the door. They have been back at his house all of three minutes and he has spent the entire time rummaging through the kitchen

"Something wrong?"

"Well, the bad news is that I forgot to go to the supermarket so I can't actually make anything other than toast, but the good news is there's a great Chinese round the corner, if you fancy it?" He says with a slight smile and waves a colourful paper menu at her as he walks back into the living room.

She holds her hand out for it. "Let's have a look then."

Less than ten minutes later the food has been ordered and Harry has returned to the living room with a bottle of wine and two glasses. He pauses by the door as he takes in the sight before him, she's curled up on one side of the sofa with Scarlet as she watches the news, and it's so achingly domestic and ordinary that he almost doesn't want to intrude.

"You can come and sit down you know," she murmurs as she turns her head towards where he is stood. "We've saved you some room." The words are said softly and as casually as she can manage but he sees in her eyes the slight trepidation that comes with the invitation.

He offers her a warm smile. "I should think so too," he teases and she is relieved when he crosses the room and sits down beside her. "Isn't there anything better to watch?"

She accepts the glass of wine he is offering her and takes an appreciative sip before she speaks. "What's wrong with the news?"

"Nothing," he tells her, truthfully, "but it's not very relaxing is it?"

She concedes that he has a point and asks what he would prefer to watch only to roll her eyes at him when he shrugs noncommittally. "That's helpful," she admonishes, lightly. "Do you have a TV guide?"

He gives her a look which tells her she ought to know better. "Just flick through the channels and we can see if there's anything good on." Just as she points the remote at the television his hand reaches out and grasps it, "Better yet, I'll do it."

"I am capable of changing the channel," she informs him as she clutches onto the remote a little bit tighter.

"I never said you weren't," he counters, still holding onto her hand.

"I thought you said we could finish the film, anyway," she retorts, smiling.

"I thought you were interested in finding out what was on TV," he returns.

She rolls her eyes at him in an exaggerated manner, pulls the remote from him completely and sets it down.

"Let's finish the film."

"You just want to see Sean Connery," he laughs.

"I do not," she protests.

He gives a grunt of disbelief, and she responds with a wide eyed stare of challenging innocence.

"Nice try. I'm not convinced."

"Harry!"

"Nu-huh, Ruth. You needn't "Harry!" me. You want him to be the spy who loved you, don't you?" He begins to softly tease her by leaning close to her ear and humming the tune of _Nobody Does it Better_.

"I wouldn't restrict it to just Sean Connery," she whispers, breathlessly quiet, but the ringing of the door bell and Scarlet's over enthusiastic barking leave him having to draw his own conclusions as to who else she might include in her list of secret agent lovers.

--

The soft, rhythmic sound of breathing is the first he realises that she has fallen asleep. Their plates have long since been piled on the coffee table, and she is curled into the corner of the sofa, Scarlet in her lap once more as Rosa Klebb and Blofeld plot their evil deeds of the flickering screen in the corner. She looks beautiful, head dropped slightly to one side, mouth slightly parted and eyes serenely closed, and he takes it as a compliment that she is so comfortable in his presence. He allows himself a few moments of quiet indulgence, just watching her as she sleeps, and he realises that he would happily watch her all night if he could. He then wonders what he should do about it. He is loathe to wake her when she is obviously tired and comfortable but he doesn't just want to leave her curled up on one half of the sofa all night either. Steadily he rises from the sofa and clicks his fingers as Scarlet until she obediently climbs down from her comfortable perch on Ruth and slinks off to her basket in the corner. He leaves the room silently and returns a few minutes later with a warm blanket. In his absence she has shifted herself into a more comfortable position and now inhabits most of the couch. He drapes the blanket over her sleeping form and she shuffles a little and mumbles his name.

"Ssssh," he whispers as he tucks the blanket around her, "sweet dreams, Ruth."

Her only response is to snuggle into the warmth and to start snoring lightly. He watches her for a moment more and then takes himself off upstairs, wishing he could just scoop her up and carry her sleeping form to his bed.

--

She's still asleep, albeit in a less graceful position than he left her in, when he comes downstairs early the next morning. He looks in on her briefly and then heads to the kitchen, letting Scarlet out into the garden on his way before deciding he needs to take a walk to get something in for breakfast.

When he returns, she is rubbing her sleepy eyes and yawning, and has not yet focused on the world around her.

"Morning," he greets her. "There's coffee in the kitchen when you're ready."

Her head snaps up quickly, and she blinks and really takes notice of where she is. "Oh God, I fell asleep. Why didn't you wake me up and tell me to go home?" Her voice is alarmed and her face a little horror stricken.

"Morning to you too."

"I'm so sorry, Harry. I'll just…I'll be gone before you know it."

"Ruth, I just offered you coffee…has it not occurred to you that I really don't mind that you fell asleep on my sofa."

"Oh. Really?" She sounds a little disbelieving still.

"Really. I wouldn't have missed finding out you snore, not for the world," he teases.

"S-snore!?"

"Yes, snore."

"Well, this is a cracking start to the morning," she laughs. "I almost run off and then you try and get me to stay by insulting me."

He pulls a face as if he is thinking, really hard, and then leaves the room.

* * *

**More soon.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Sorry for the long wait for this update, we****'ve both been annoyingly busy lately, although really we should have been better as the fic is 90% written!**

**We are continuing to work on your drabble prompts and the invite for new reviewers to leave prompts is still open! Oh, and Ex-Lurker, we hadn't realised when you prompted, but an egg whisk had already made an appearence in this fic...and here it is now!**

* * *

"Harry!?"

"Morning," he greets her. "There's coffee in the kitchen when you're ready."

She laughs when he tells her he thought they should start over.

"Morning," she returns mid yawn, which makes him chuckle. "Coffee sounds wonderful."

"Come on then," he commands and she dutifully follows him to the kitchen, where he passes her a cup of hot, strong coffee. "Breakfast?"

"I thought you didn't have any food in?" she teases and shoots him a slightly flirtatious look over the rim of her coffee cup.

"Well, Sleeping Beauty, had you been awake you would have seen me leave to go to the shop." He enjoys the small brush that creeps into her face at his endearment. "Omelette ok?"

"Lovely, can I help?"

He thinks about it for a second before telling her she can set the table and she eagerly stands to get started only to realise that she has no idea where anything is kept. He's turned his back to her, and is busy whisking the eggs, so doesn't notice her stood in the middle of his kitchen looking lost.

"Um, Harry, where do you keep your cutlery?"

He stops beating the eggs for a moment and pats the drawer to his immediate left. "In here."

"Thanks," she murmurs and joins him at the counter. As she reaches for the handle she realises he's stood in front of it slightly and playfully nudges him out of the way with her hip.

"Who're you pushing about?" he asks, playfully, and her response is to push her tongue out at him and unrepentantly nudge his leg again before turning and gliding away triumphantly with the cutlery.

"Plates?"

"In the top cupboard," he says and directs her to the other side of the kitchen with a wave of his arm.

She wanders about and looks at the row of high cupboards, muttering that she might as well have just looked in every cupboard instead of asking because that's what she'll have to do anyway. Predictably the plates are in the last cupboard she tries but, more annoyingly, they appear to be on quite a high shelf. She's stood on tiptoes and swears under her breath when she still can't quite reach them properly.

"No need to swear, Ruth." His amused voice startles her slightly but not as much as the feel of his hands on her hips as he gently ushers her out of the way. The contact is only fleeting but the effect of his hands on her body is long lasting and she is still flustered when he places the plates on the counter in front of her. "You see, I am helpful really."

She gathers that her muttered ravings were louder than she had anticipated but doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of admitting she needed his help. "It would be more helpful if the plates were at normal person height."

"They're hardly at giant level, Ruth," he counters, good naturedly, relishing every second of their morning together.

"I could accuse you of being sizeist, you know," she tells him, seriously, despite the smile twitching at the corners of her mouth.

He nods, gravely, poker face firmly in place. "You're right, it's a terrible oversight on my part; I can't believe I was so thoughtless. Feel free to punish me for it."

The twinkle in his eye in unmistakable and the colour seeps into cheeks despite her best efforts. For a moment she considers telling him that she might just take him up on the offer but it is only a fleeting thought and is dismissed almost immediately.

"Now, if you're quite finished insulting the layout of my kitchen, I'll cook your breakfast," he tells her, aware that his teasing has gone far enough for now, and heads towards the stove.

--

She manages, somehow, to spend most of the rest of the weekend in his company. Breakfast is followed by a long walk with Scarlet which stretches until early Saturday afternoon, and on Sunday they find themselves back in a local pub for what must be their 5th meal there in as many weeks. She is dangerously close to being forced to admit that this is getting out of control and well beyond the normal boundaries of friendship but, if she admits it, then it means she has to put a stop to things, and that's something she'd rather not have to do…and _that's_ an even less appealing prospect than continuing to lie to herself.

She worries about it through most of Monday, preoccupied with runaway thoughts about the strange sort of domestic setup they managed to find themselves in these past few days, and is so far lost to her thoughts that time quite escapes her as she daydreams at her desk.

"Shit," she curses when a quick glance at her watch shows her that it is past four o'clock. "That's just bloody marvellous."

"What is?" asks Harry who has suddenly appeared by her desk.

She's slightly embarrassed that he's heard her outburst and wonders if she should really complain to him; he is still her boss after all is said and done, but she knows that he won't let her get away with not answering. "Oh, I've missed the washing machine repair man coming, that's all. I'll just have to reschedule and take my clothes to the laundry for another week."

"Ah, yes, I can see why that would be annoying," he sympathises. "What's wrong with it?"

"It's broken."

He rolls his eyes at her. "I'd gathered that much, Ruth. I meant which part of it is it that needs to be mended?"

"I haven't the foggiest," she tells him, honestly, and wonders if he's lost the plot a little bit. "It, er, leaks a little. Does it matter? Surely the repair man will be able to figure it out?"

"Well I could take a look at it for you, but, ideally, I'd need to know what the problem is."

She's flattered at his offer of help and likes the idea of watching him do something manual. A stray thought of him in her kitchen, in a slightly sweaty t-shirt, surfaces, unbidden, and she has to push it firmly away. "You don't have to give up your evening to help me out, Harry. I can live without it for a week."

"Nonsense. It's no trouble, Ruth," he assures her, with a disarming smile.

"Ok, thanks." She's aware that this is yet another thing to blur the lines of friendship between them but, oddly, she doesn't care as much as she might have done before. "I'll, uh, I'll make some dinner afterwards, if you like? As a thank you."

His smile is one of genuine delight and it makes her heart flutter. "That would be lovely," he says, quietly, before adding that he'll call and collect his tools on his way.

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**Please review.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Dedicated to Nat as a special birthday treat. Happy 21****st****!! **

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The doorbell rings at 7pm sharp. She has come to expect no less from him; he is nothing if not punctual. When she opens it, her insides seem to jump up into her rib cage before plummeting to the depths of her stomach; in his hand is a tool kit, and a pale, grey-marl t-shirt stretches snugly over him before tucking into his belted jeans. It is such a delicious image that she is forced to swallow hard to wet her suddenly dry mouth. Without realising it, she has engineered her very own living, breathing version of every woman's workman fantasy, and her mind turns the subject over and over like the pages of a Mills and Boon novel.

"I've come to check your plumbing," he winks. "That's what I'm supposed to say, isn't it?" he teases, and she splutters madly and reddens in an instant.

"Er," she blinks, as her mind struggles to find _anything_ to say, let alone find the words to invite him through to the kitchen and show him what the problem is.

He suddenly realises just _how_ flushed she is, and how intently she is staring at the top of his chest and, for a moment, there is every chance he might throw caution to the wind, bundle her inside the door and pin her against the nearest hard surface. The way she is breathing, the way there is a slight tremble in her posture, the way her tongue keeps running over her lips, he is suddenly convinced like never before that everything he hopes she might feel, she actually does. She raises her eyes, slowly, and they just stare for some indefinite yet defining moment. He is ready to will himself either to speak or to act, when she breaks the silence.

"I, um, I guess you should come in."

"I suppose I should," he sighs. "I…I hope this isn't being too presumptuous, but I thought I might shower and change when I'm done," he adds, holding up a carrier bag she'd failed to notice. "I didn't think I'd better sit and eat dinner in my DIY clothes."

She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling; she thinks she wouldn't mind if he did…at all.

"Of course," she nods, understanding. "I can sort you out some towels and things and get dinner started while you do that."

He returns the smile and leads into the kitchen as she closes the door behind them.

--

He has been working on the machine little short of ten minutes and already she is frustrated beyond belief; not for the fact that he hasn't located the source of the problem yet, but at the fact that he's now moved to try and turn the water off under her sink units and, as a result, he's flat on his back, a light sheen of perspiration across his forehead, his slightly sweaty t-shirt pulled tight and riding up his stomach as he wriggles about trying to find what he needs.

The sight is so distracting that she almost doesn't hear him as he asks her to step to one side so he can shuffle back out again.

"Ruth, I said I need to get back up."

"Oh. Oh!" She steps back suddenly, almost tripping over one of the cats in the process, and Harry laughs at her lightly.

"You were watching me," he observes, softly, and with no small measure of pride.

"I was just making sure you didn't cause trouble," she manages to mumble, and is thankful she even managed that much of an excuse.

For once, he lets it pass. Tonight, he is finally confident that things might finally be heading in the right direction, and he knows that when the moment is right, he will take the chance to find out for sure.

"I _think_ the hose might be blocked, or the filter. Normally just soap powder and fluff. I've shut the water off so I'll have a look. Have you got any old towels just in case?"

"Er, I should have. Hold on."

She dashes upstairs and he rolls his eyes at the almightily clattering and muffled swearing he can hear as she roots around in the airing cupboard; how she can make such a drama of it, he's not sure, but if anyone can, it's her. He smiles to himself as the racket stops and is replaced by fast thudding as she evidently runs back down the stairs and into the kitchen. She skids in, and he is waiting for her with a cocked eyebrow of amusement.

"It wasn't a race, Ruth," he laughs, and takes delight in her soft blush.

She doesn't really know what to reply to that; her over eagerness to please has been with her since childhood, but he seems to bring it out in her more than most.

"Well the sooner it's done the sooner we can get you out of those sweaty clothes." Her eyes widen in panic as she hears what it is she has just said to him and an almighty blush makes her cheeks burn.

"I hadn't thought about it like that," he murmurs, and she can't decide if he is toying with her or not. There is a definite twinkle in his eye as he reaches over and tugs the towels from her grasp but he doesn't say anything further and by the time she has gathered herself enough to speak again he has turned and headed back to the washing machine.

--

"All done," he says, proudly, as he wipes his hands on one of the old towels and walks over to where she is standing chopping vegetables.

She pauses and risks a glance at him, but almost immediately regrets it as she now has the close up version of a slightly sweaty and dishevelled Harry. "Thank you," she mumbles, eventually, unable to think clearly when he is standing so close to her.

"No problem; you need to help me now, though." He waits until he has her full attention before he carries on. "I'd quite like to get out of my sweaty clothes..." he trails off and her breath catches in her throat as the knife clatters against the chopping board. He draws the delicious tension of the moment out a fraction longer before putting an end to his teasing and asking where her bathroom is.

"Oh, erm, follow me." There is relief in her voice but he is also able to read the disappointment in her eyes and it strengthens his convictions about their feelings for each other.

"You can use these towels," she stutters, as they enter the bathroom and she thrusts a white, fluffy pile at him, keen to get back to the kitchen as soon as possible. She doesn't think she can function sanely while he's looking _that_ unkempt and while she's in the knowledge that he's imminently about to remove _that_ sweaty t-shirt and _those_ jeans.

"Thanks," he smiles. "How long have I got until dinner?"

"Fifteen, twenty?"

"Perfect."

--

Dinner is a quiet affair, the conversation gentle and light; silences between them no longer need to be filled like they once used to and, in a stark contrast to the awkwardness of their tentative drinks of a few short months ago, neither ever struggles to find a topic they'll enjoy. Tonight, perhaps, is quieter than usual. He is thinking about whether or not he should broach the subject of their ever closer relationship, whilst she silently dwells on just how much she is exposing herself to vulnerability by letting her guard down as much as she has been.

"Want to know something funny?" he asks, out of nowhere. He is seemingly ready to test the waters, but is unusually indirect about it. "Last night, you automatically swapped your onion for my tomato. You didn't even ask this time."

She looks at him, confused. "Sorry, um, I-I don't get the joke."

"I didn't mean funny-haha, I meant funny-interesting."

"Oh, er?"

He senses he is digging himself a hole with his round about way of trying to point out how close they've become without any conscious effort, but now that he's started down this route, it seems silly to stop. Besides, he knows she won't let it rest until he tells her now.

"It's what couples do, Ruth. Little quirks like that, knowing each other so well they don't even need to ask."

She falls silent, fiddling with her ring as she gazes into her empty coffee cup.

"I suppose," he ventures, "I was thinking we'd progressed without even realising."

She is still silent, then, "Harry…" It is desperate, pleading for him not to continue. She pleads all the more because she knows he will press on.

"Ruth, am I still only sitting here as a friend; was that just a favour for a friend or for…for something more?"

She avoids the question all together, seeking distraction elsewhere.

"I, um, should…I have to…" She points vaguely in the direction of 2 unwashed plates and a mug.

"I'm sure they can wait," he says, pointedly. The look on her face tells him she doesn't think they can. "Ruth, please, we need to talk."

"No, I need to," she stands, and finishes her sentence through action, as she picks up their empty glasses and plates and carries them to the sink and runs the water.

An arm reaches around her and shuts the tap off, and the shock makes her drop the glass into the bowl, splashing everywhere. "Leave it."

She puts the other glass down on the side with the plates and mug, and tries to turn around, but he is still right behind her. He steps back graciously when he realises.

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**There's more, much more, to come so leave us a review and we'll get posting the next chapter! :-) **


	12. Chapter 12

**Wow, this suddenly seems like a much bigger deal now we're about to hit the "submit button". Sorry it's been a while since we've been here; I think you all know why, so let's not get into that. We're testing the waters again - this is definitely getting finished and if all goes well we might continue with new ones, too. Please be gentle with us, this is actually kind of scary again.**

**So, here we have the crucial bit...and a bit of messed up, lovable Ruth.**

**To all of you who emailed xx  
**

_**

* * *

**_They move from the kitchen but their posture, as they sit in the lounge, feels awkward, rigid, like they don't quite know where to put themselves. All evening the air has crackled with sexual tension, but now it is thick and heavy with uncertainty.

"Please talk to me," he whispers. "Maybe I shouldn't have said anything, but I know I'm right. The way were are together, the way you make me want to be around you, I don't think that's just friendship anymore. I've seen how you look at me; it's the same way I'm looking at you, now."

"Please, Harry…"

"Why won't you talk about it, Ruth?"

"Because I can't." He hears the note of upset in her voice; genuine upset, not just defensive anger anymore.

"Ruth, it's me."

"That's the problem."

"Do I scare you, Ruth?" The thought that she might answer _yes_ is, in itself, a terrifying prospect.

"I…yes. In the most wonderful way possible."

She wipes her hands across her face and runs them through her hair before looking up at him. They stand simultaneously, she with the intention to pace the room, and he with the intention of kneeling before her, where she had sat just seconds ago. In any other situation, the shock of the coincidence would have diffused the tension effortlessly, but now they simply stand there, silent and apart, leaden feet bound to the floor by the gravity of the moment.

"Why?" he breathes. In his tone, there is encouragement; soft spoken reassurance that, whatever she answers, it will be ok.

"I'm terrified I'm out of my depth."

"With me?"

"With us," she nods, and he steps forwards. She can feel her pulse begin to race, her breathing begin to quicken and each inhalation catches in her throat until her body gives up, and she forgets to breathe altogether. By the time he is in front of her, she wonders at the fact that she's not passed out.

"Breathe," he whispers. "It's quite important."

She inhales, as instructed, but it's a shaky gasp at best.

"Better," he comments, and slowly, so slowly, his right hand finds it's way to her cheek, just resting there until he feels it's safe enough to draw their faces closer 'til their noses and foreheads touch. It's like taming a wild animal; nothing sudden, nothing that might startle her, just tiny, gentle, measured gestures. "You're shaking."

She nods.

"Why so frightened?"

"Aren't you?"

"Not anymore." He tilts his head a fraction and their lips are brought into the most fleeting moment of contact. "Will you," he pauses to try and calm the sudden buzz rushing through him from kissing her, "will you tell me why?"

She lets her eyes remain closed, running her tongue across where her mouth tingles before drawing her bottom lip between her teeth. He feels her nod, slowly, against him.

"I've…there's never been a person I've loved who hasn't hurt me. Except you. Because I won't let you." She is breathing heavily with the effort of trying to remain composed, and against the heady concoction of his warm breath and sweet, spicy scent. "My father died. My mother moved on from all of us. Peter was…Peter," she shakes her head, unable to finish that thought; the liberties he took with her trust, and with their enforced friendship, are still too painful. "My first boyfriend announced he was in love with someone else, my second cheated with my _best_ friend. I push people away before they can get close, sabotage things so they can't go wrong later, because that way I can't get hurt."

"Ruth…"

"I-I just don't want to…I mean, I don't know what this is so I'm-" She is cut short as he interrupts.

"I think I love you," he whispers, as if the quieter he says it, the less intimidating it will be for her to hear. "And I'll never, ever hurt you. I promise."

"T-think?" she stutters, an amused smile threatening to lift her sad face as she cries. Is it his soft declaration that has done it, or the catharsis of telling him all of this? She doesn't know, but somehow, the tremble underlying his assured voice reassures her that she's not alone in her nerves.

"Fine," he smiles. He moves his other hand to her other cheek, holding her firmly as he pulls back to look at her. "I'm in love with you, how's that? _That's_ what this is."

"I, er, you…" she swallows.

"Ruth," he placates, gently, "that doesn't mean anything except the obvious." He is watching her mind start to work, and he's desperate for her not to retreat inside herself again. "You don't have to analyse everything. It doesn't come with any expectations of you."

"Kiss me again," she commands, quietly.

When he responds, it is achingly tender and heartfelt; one movement against her lips, the gentle touch of his tongue to their seam, and another lingering kiss against her slightly parted mouth.

"I don't have to get hurt? Tell me that part again, Harry."

"You don't have to get hurt. Falling in love isn't supposed to hurt, and if it does, I'll do everything I can to stop it from hurting."

"I believe you," she replies, and for the very first time, she does. Completely.

"We can do this however you want," he whispers, pulling her body against his and just holding her there.

She nods against him.

"Slow as you like."

"I…thank you. I just…change scares me."

"Then we carry on as we are," he decides, "on one condition."

"Oh?"

"I get to end every date like this." He presses his lips firmly against hers until she parts them, and their kisses fall into a steady rhythm which seems so natural and well practiced it seems as though they've always kissed.

When he pulls away, she is smiling, and her eyes remain closed. "I think I can cope with that," she whispers.

"Good. We'll just let things happen. It's got us this far."

She nods, and smiles, and then pulls herself up to his height and kisses him, soundly. The shock on his face, that she has done so, is evidently, and she blushes a little.

"Just reminding myself of what I promised," she whispers.

--

He is right, as usual. There is nothing so different about things since they talked, except for the quiet, ever present warmth she feels at the knowledge that, this time, things might actually be ok. She thinks about this all through the rest of their evening as she enjoys not having to worry so much about all the small gestures they make; the long looks, the holding of hands. Maybe it's not so scary, after all.

"It's late," he whispers eventually. He's trying to tell her he should get going, but somehow, at least to her, it doesn't quite sound like that.

"Oh, er, I…do you…, um, ok."

"I mean I'm going to be going," he says, slowly.

"Ah, yes, of course."

"You do know that was what I mean, don't you?"

"Ye- yeah, course."

"Ruth."

"I don't know."

He is suddenly quieter, his face a little unresponsive.

"Harry?"

"I can't believe you thought that was what I was suggesting, after all that was said earlier."

"I just..." she trails off unable to articulate herself properly. "Sorry, you have every right to be angry with me, Harry."

His fingers tip her chin up until she looks him in the eye. "I'm not angry, Ruth. Just a bit disappointed that you thought I had an ulterior motive," he lets out a little sigh as he smiles softly at her. "I don't expect that we're going to jump into bed together at the first opportunity, Ruth; it's taken us a long time to get this far and, as much as I love you, I don't want to rush into it."

She smiles at him and marvels at how lucky she is to have someone like him. "Thank you," she whispers and lifts her mouth to his in a brief kiss. "I don't either."

"Good," he murmurs, his lips still against hers, and slightly reluctant to break contact. "But it's late, so I'm going to go home." He articulates it slowly, to tease her just a little.

"Drop it," she mutters, pouting. "You can go off people you know."

"I love you."

"Well learn to do so in spite of my social ineptitude, and we'll be ok," she smiles, then stops and looks at the floor for a second before meeting his eyes again. "And I love you, too. I didn't tell you that earlier."

"Goodnight, sweetheart," he smiles, and kisses her forehead before seeing himself out.

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**So, there you go...worth the wait!? :S**

**Please review...a bit of encouragement wouldn't go amiss right now!**

**ps: all lurker review prompts will be up soon too! They're not forgotten!  
**


	13. Chapter 13

**Thanks to everyone that's still reading and reviewing :)**

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_Sometime later…_

She wakes early and is trying to cajole herself out of bed when she is forced to by the sound of her doorbell, dazed and disorientated at the thought of who might be ringing it at this hour.

When she answers it, a man in a gold and beige polo neck and an unusually bright smile is standing there, gift wrapped box in one hand, and clipboard in the other.

"Sign please," he sing songs.

"Er."

"Ruth Evershed?" he chirps, to a similar melody. She feels like punching him just for being so chirpy at this hour, but the twinkling of a shiny ribbon reminds her that she should just smile back and be gracious.

"Yes."

"Then sign please."

She grabs the pen and literally drags it back and forth in the box, her eyes still bleary and her body still a little uncoordinated.

He wishes her a wonderful day, and she pads back inside and curls up on the sofa with her newly acquired box and an old fleecy blanket.

"What do you think I've got then, Fidg'?" she asks, to the cat that crept in while she was at the door. "Hmm, what's in here?"

He meows loudly, more than anything because he wants feeding, and she tickles it under the chin with her fluffy-socked foot. "Yes, I know, Mummy should open it; then she'd know."

He cocks his head, looks at her, and walks off, leaving her to untie the thick brown and gold ribbons without an audience. Slowly, she slides off the wrapping and lifts the thick, gloss cardboard lid and beneath it are the perfectly wrapped shapes of 100 red foil hearts. She smiles, and runs her finger over their uneven forms.

Her phone rings and, immediately, she knows it will be him and then wonders just how specific a time Harry had made the people at Thornton's commit to and, more worryingly, what leverage he used to get them to carry it through.

"They're lovely," she sighs, in place of saying _hello_.

"I'm glad you think so," he murmurs, seductively, and her stomach flutters in response.

"What's the occasion?" she asks, and then wonders if perhaps she's just ruined the romance of it all.

She's greeted with a chuckle down the line followed by his amused voice. "I knew you wouldn't remember," he informs her and she can picture the exact look of smugness on his face.

"Are you going to enlighten me, then?" she asks, hopefully, despite knowing that he won't.

"No, I think I'll leave you to think it over whilst you get ready for work."

"Insufferable man," she huffs, teasingly, and enjoys his answering laughter.

"Good job you love me, really, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is, now leave me alone so I can get dressed for work."

"Ok, see you soon," he replies.

"Harry?" she says, totally serious all of a sudden.

"Yes, Ruth?"

"I love you," she says, softly, and it makes him smile.

"I love you too, sweetheart." He ends the call and stares at the phone for a moment, replaying the sound of her voice in his head. He chuckles to himself as he wonders how long it'll take her to work the date out.

--

"Figured it out yet?" he murmurs, directly in to her ear, as she helps herself to some water from the cooler.

She takes a moment to enjoy the way his warm breath washes over her ear before she turns to face him. "I have, actually," she informs him, triumphantly, and briefly touches her hand to his chest and smoothes his tie down. "You're an old romantic, Harry Pearce."

He's glad that it's still early enough for it to be just the two of them and takes advantage of it by unexpectedly pinning her against the wall. "Less of the old, thank you very much," he growls, good naturedly, and she feels her heart skip a beat.

"Or else?"

"I won't take you out for dinner to celebrate," he counters, immediately, thoroughly enjoying their flirtation.

"You don't have to," she tells him, seriously, and he raises an eyebrow at her in question. "You can come to mine and I'll cook."

"If you prefer," he answers, with a smile. He's not bothered where they go as long as they're together.

"I do. After all, it is our one month anniversary," she whispers, playfully, before leaning up and catching him off guard with a fleeting kiss, "and I think I'd like you all to myself."

"Are you mocking me, Miss Evershed?"

"Wouldn't dream of it, Harry," she replies, airily, and he can't help but laugh. He loves how comfortable they are with each other now and is so thankful that they found their way to one another eventually.

"Glad to hear it," he growls, lowly, and gives her a smouldering look.

"Don't you have work to be doing?" she asks, cheekily, when he still hasn't moved a few minutes later. She's aware of the time and knows he has a meeting with the other Section Heads shortly.

"Yes, I'm a very busy and important man," he informs her and puffs his chest out a little bit for effect, which makes her giggle, "but I've always got time for you." His words are delivered with a soft smile and her stomach flip flops at the absolute sincerity of his tone and the love shining in his eyes.

"I'm very glad about that," she whispers and reaches up to squeeze his bicep, gently, before turning and walking back to her desk. She feels his eyes on her as she crosses the Grid and smiles happily to herself; it's turning out to be a wonderful day.

--

She leaves work a little early, catching his eye across the office, the unspoken understanding that she is leaving to get ready.

When she gets home, she rifles through her wardrobe. She has always made an effort where he's concerned, ever since she can remember, but since they've officially become an item, it seems to have become harder and harder to dress herself without over analysing everything about the outfit. Tonight is no exception and she feels some kind of unspoken expectation that tonight will be perfect, especially after the wonderful way the day started.

She leafs through a rather unused end of her wardrobe, fingers running over dresses she's never worn or haven't seen daylight in far too long. She finds the one she has in mind, a deep, dark red wrap over dress which falls to the knee, and holds it up for inspection. He's never seen her in anything close to this, and she's very aware of that fact; she knows it will emphasise her décolletage, her waist, her hips, and just imagining the way she knows he will look at her makes a tingle run down her spine. She wonders if the sudden change will be too much, too obvious, though, and wonders if he will read more into the provocation of her outfit than she intends. She stares at the dress some more, as if doing so might reveal some miraculous answer, but it doesn't. She thinks about the alternative choices, but she wants something different from the usual mix and match combo of pretty blouses or fitted tops, nice skirts or smart jeans, and eventually commits herself to removing the hanger from the dress and laying the material on the bed next to a pair of black opaque tights and a long necklace.

Outfit organised she heads downstairs and starts to prepare their food, wondering if she has enough time to have a soak in the bath whilst the lasagne is cooking. She convinces herself she does and heads back upstairs the second the pasta is in the oven. She's humming to herself as she flits back and forth between her bedroom and the bathroom and catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she is messily pinning her hair up. She smiles at the happy and carefree woman in the glass and reflects that she has rarely seen herself looking so content. He has a lot to answer for, she thinks, and at some point she'll make sure to thank him properly for it.

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**Get your minds out of the gutter, we don't mean she'll be thanking him like *that*! **

**More soon...**


	14. Chapter 14

She's still upstairs faffing with her outfit when the doorbell rings and, as she takes a final look in the mirror, she feels butterflies in her stomach. She hasn't been this nervous about him being on her doorstep for a while.

"You look lovely," he compliments her, as she opens the door. His eyes take a brief moment to take in the outfit, but he is careful not to let them wander too far or linger too long.

"Thank you." She still blushes a brilliant red, and he finds himself smiling her at all the more for it until they both make an utterly goofy pair, just grinning at each other in the doorway.

"Something smells delicious," he murmurs, and finally leans forwards to kiss her.

She responds generously, parting her lips for him to explore.

"It's the lasagne," she replies.

"I meant you," he purrs.

She falters for a moment, almost too used to having to fend off compliments and pretend she doesn't enjoy his attention, but she corrects herself, flushes visibly, and smiles at him.

"I brought wine," he announces, offering the bottle. "I'd like to claim I'm an expert and tell you it has a taste and aroma complimentary to your lasagne…but really it was just the nicest looking bottle there was and I've no idea what it tastes like. Whisky's more my forte," he winks.

She laughs and kisses him again. "We'd better crack it open and see then, hadn't we?" she suggests, smiling. "It won't be ready for about a quarter of an hour."

--

"Mmm, I should..." she murmurs, between kisses, as the bell on the oven can be heard in the background. They seem to have been kissing for the best part of 15 minutes and she is amazed at their capacity for behaving like a pair of love-struck teenagers. "Don't want it to burn," she mutters again and this time manages to extricate herself from his lips and his embrace.

He gives a small chuckle and runs a hand through his slightly ruffled hair as he watches her smooth down her dress. "Anything I can do?"

"Pour the wine," she answers with a nod to the still, as yet, unopened bottle that he brought with him. "I'd actually like a glass of it at some point this evening!"

"You should have fetched a corkscrew then instead of kissing me, shouldn't you?" he teases and laughs when her only response is to stick her tongue out at him. "I'll take that as 'yes, Harry, you're right'."

"I didn't hear any complaints," she calls, as she disappears into the kitchen.

"True," he murmurs. He makes her jump, having seemingly come from nowhere to sneak up behind her as she plates up thick slices of crusty baguette. "Not garlic, I hope," he asks of the bread.

"No," she replies, turning, planting another kiss on his waiting lips. "Not for this evening."

He begins to kiss her back, eagerly, lips capturing and then teasing hers, and she is forced to duck her head, chastising him again. "The food'll be cold," she admonishes, lightly and then questions his thoughtful face. "What?"

"I'm trying to decide if I care," he teases.

"Oh, you do." She pats his stomach playfully. "Way to a man's heart, so I believe."

He laughs and concedes defeat. As much as he does care about stopping kissing her, the food _does_ smell delicious, and he knows without fail that dessert will come accompanied by more kissing later.

--

"Profiteroles?" she asks, as they sip lazily at their wine and regard their empty plates with contentment.

He looks contemplative as he swirls his wine around the bowl of the glass. "I'll share some with you," he answers, eventually, "Need to watch my weight," he says, jokingly, as he pats his stomach for effect.

She laughs briefly and, as she stands to clear the plates, she places a kiss at the side of his ear, murmuring, softly to him as she does so, "We could always save them for later and sit and have another drink instead?"

There's a hint of an invitation in her words and, although nothing has been voiced explicitly he is more than happy to follow her lead. "Excellent idea," he agrees and takes her hand in his as she leads them back to the living room. They have barely entered the living room when he tugs gently at her hand and she turns to face him, briefly.

"Dinner was lovely, Ruth," he says, sensually, and leans in to brush a soft kiss against her mouth. He tastes of bread and wine and something else that she can't readily identify; whatever it is it is a heady combination and she kisses him back with an eagerness that surprises even her.

"You're welcome," she mumbles, eventually, against his lips, almost embarrassed by the enthusiasm she's displayed.

"So I gathered," he teases, his lips gently playing with hers. "Who'd have thought a month ago, almost to the hour, we were in here, you refusing to even meet my eye."

She pulls back a little, and the gentle pressure of her lips on his is replaced by the gently stroking pad of her thumb. She simply gazes up at him and smiles, then tugs at his hand with her free one.

"Did I tell you how nice that dress is?" he asks, as they sit. Their knees touch and bodies face each other, and her spine tingles when he looks at her.

"Yes," she replies, with a tone of mock-admonishment, "several times!"

"But last time I said it, you weren't flashing your leg," he teases, and laughs at her gasp as she realises the overlap of the material is not quite so…overlapping.

"Oh, um, I, sorry about…"

She is cut off from finishing by the nearing of his face and a firm, brief kiss. "I didn't say it to embarrass you, Ruth," he says, sincerely. "It's sexy." He looks her gently in the eye, and then down at the small but tempting glimpse of exposed leg, wrapped in black, and lightly lets his fingers skim across it.

He glances back upwards, eager to check it's ok and, for want of knowing what to say or do, she simply leans forward and presses her lips against his, just briefly. His mouth slowly moves towards her ear, a journey indicated by the path of his hot breath across her cheek. She hears the rush of his breathing beside her, and then gulps; a shaky breath of her own escapes as tongue and lips make contact with her rapidly hammering pulse point.

At the same time, his whole palm seems to have come to rest steadily above her knee, index finger gently tracing circles. Without even need for conscious thought, her hands rise and twine themselves around his neck, holding his head to her as their bodies twist and she is thrown back further against the sofa. It could just be the way their bodies move as they twist, but his hand smoothes higher over glossy lycra and she sighs at the feel of it against her skin, her breath hitching as his fingers flex a little. Partly, it's the knowledge that it's _his_ hands doing this - seeking, wanting to explore her body - which sends her slightly dizzy. Partly, it's feeling alive again as she feels sparks of electricity not switched on in so long.

She's forgotten just what this is like, how it feels to have hands on skin and body against body. It's been a long time. _Too_ long. Too long to rush right in.

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	15. Chapter 15

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"Harry-" she whispers, realising belatedly that it sounds more like a sigh of encouragement than anything else. She tries again, a little louder this time, and is slightly more successful in getting his attention.

"Mmm?" he murmurs, seductively, against the curve of her neck and it feels so good that she almost loses track of what she needs to say.

She rests her hand against his wandering one, gently trapping it, and whispers his name again. He looks at her this time, his upper body pulling away from hers slightly as he moves to see her face properly. "Ruth?"

She reads the worry in his eyes and smiles a little to make him relax. "I, uh, we, um, it's –" she pauses briefly and tries to collect herself, "I don't want to rush into things yet, Harry."

He can tell from the way her lip suddenly chews on her bottom lip that she's worried about his reaction. He removes his hand from where it rested on her thigh and reaches up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear.

"You're right," he murmurs, "as usual." He smiles at her softly and she releases a shaky breath as he strokes her cheek with the backs of his fingers, "I'd never expect you to do anything we're not ready for, you do know that, don't you?"

"I know, it's, well, it's, um, you're a hard temptation to resist," she mumbles, eventually, embarrassed to have admitted her desire for him.

He can't help the wide, satisfied smile that settles on his face at her admission and laughs, briefly, when she tells him off for being smug about it.

His hands settle on her cheeks and he leans in and kisses her sweetly before pulling back and looking at her seriously. "I've never felt this way, Ruth. I _want_ you but, more than that, I want to be _with_ you. I love you. All you ever have to do is tell me to stop, and I will."

"I don't deserve you," she whispers, quietly and with no small amount of awe.

"Tosh," he tuts.

"I thought you'd be annoyed," she admits.

"No, sweetheart; this has been a very, _very_, long time coming. There's no need for us to rush ahead now."

"A marathon, not a sprint," she chuckles.

"I'm not athletic enough for sprinting any more," he teases.

"As long as you've got the stamina for a marathon," she retorts, regaining her sense of confidence and cocking one eyebrow.

He shakes his head in disbelief at her.

"You started it with your athleticism comment, Harry," she mumbles, full of feigned innocence. "Don't look at me like that."

He purses his lips, reluctant to admit that she is right. "Cheeky. I have more than enough stamina thank you, and _when_ it's the right time, I'll prove it."

His body is still lent over hers, and she presses her lips up to his pouting ones before shifting them both so she can nestle herself into his side, quietly content.

"Harry?" she asks, after a while.

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

"For having stamina?" he jokes.

She rolls her eyes. "For being the patient, level headed one."

"Well thank you for being the adorable, flappable, easily flustered one. I happen to find it peculiarly endearing."

"Good job, too," she says, with her most serious voice, and both descend into spluttering giggles.

He places a light kiss on her temple; "I haven't kissed like that in ages," he admits, and she nods in agreement. Somewhere along the line, since becoming a couple, the quite nights and meals they used to share as 'just good friends' have given way to trips out, bistros, plays, concerts - an indication, no doubt, of their readiness to show the world that they were together – but hardly places which lead to such intimacy with each other.

"So, are you going to flap and fluster if I kiss you again," he purrs, softly, next to her ear.

She feels herself shudder, content to savour his actions now that she knows where she stands. "Try it and we'll see," she suggests.

He moves his lips to a patch of skin next to her ear and feels how he face moves as she smiles and turns her head.

Their kisses are softer, slower, now, tempered by their talk and by the diminishing kick of the wine they've drunk, and they are content simply to gently explore and to take their time; for once, that time is theirs and theirs alone, not shared with anyone else, and there is something extremely contenting to know that they have all evening to gently twist their fingers through each others hair, slide their lips together and enjoy the luxury of being curled up close.

"Mmm, see," she murmurs between kisses, "not…mmm…flap…ing."

"Good." He gently places his thumb and forefinger on her chin and lowers her jaw, her lips falling apart. His tongue darts out, just touching lightly between parted lips before dancing tip to tip with hers, mouths barely touching.

--

By the time the evening is ready to draw to a close, she feels she has kissed him more times, in more ways, and certainly with more feeling, than she has kissed any man before.

"I've been thinking I might be ready to tell the others," she suggests. "I mean, we've been getting bolder about going out, so I know they probably already suspect it, but I think I'm actually ready to just say it and be damned with the jokes and teasing."

"Romantic," he says, sarcastically, but not with malice.

"I am, aren't I?" she winks.

"So how do we do it? Do you want me to fly a plane over the building dragging a banner, or?"

She laughs, loudly.

"No, no, I was thinking it could write a message in a trail of smoke, actually, and we could assemble everybody on the roof to watch."

"Ah, of course."

"So?"

"So."

"Well obviously I haven't really thought 'telling them' all the way through."

"Obviously," he smiles, cheekily.

"I was distracted," she defends.

"My fault, no doubt."

"Absolutely."

"It always is," he teases.

"How do you think we should do it then, Harry?"

"I don't think we need to do anything drastic. Isn't Thursday evening usually drinks at The George?"

"Yes, I think so," she says and realises where he is going with this train of thought, "Are we going? Tomorrow?"

"Only if you promise to hold my hand," he teases.

"I think that can be arranged, Harry," she whispers and seals her pledge with a small kiss.

"I should probably get going," he says, as they part, with a reluctant sigh. "It is a school night after all."

She gives a small laugh and nods her agreement. As much as she'd like him to stay she knows that they're not ready for that yet. They take their time walking to the door, delaying their inevitable goodbye as long as they can, and she finds it both ridiculous and exhilarating that neither want to be parted for long.

"Sweet dreams, Ruth," he whispers and brushes his mouth against hers for a final time. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Love you," she replies, softly, making him smile.

"I love you too, sweetheart," he tells her, turning and walking out of the door before he can succumb to the temptation of kissing her again.

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	16. Chapter 16

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* * *

"Fancy a drink, Ruth?" Jo asks, as she grabs her coat from the back of her chair.

"I do actually," she replies, surprising Jo as she immediately flicks her computer to shutdown.

"Bad day?" The blonde asks, aware that Ruth is usually very reluctant to leave the Grid before a certain Section Head leaves for the night.

"Not especially, just busy. Are the others meeting us there?" she inquires, casually as they head for the pods.

"Yeah, Malcolm's just finishing something up but Ros, Zaf and Adam have already made their way over."

"Good," she waits until they are just stepping into the pods then, casually, adds, "Harry said he'll be there by half past."

Jo gives Ruth a searching look as she disappears through the pods but decides it is best if she doesn't press the shy analyst on when, precisely, she has managed to speak to Harry today. As far as Jo is aware he hasn't stepped foot on the Grid since 10 am.

She waits until they are a street or so away from Thames House before striking up a seemingly casual conversation. "I'm glad you're coming to the pub, Ruth, you haven't been for after work drinks for ages," she says and, with a quick glance across at her companion, adds, "nor has Harry."

Ruth is left in no doubt that Jo is fishing for more information and is surprised to find that she doesn't feel as nervous about what she is about to admit as she thought she would do. She stops walking and waits for Jo to notice and turn to her. "Are you trying to ask me something, Jo?"

"Would I get an honest answer if I did?"

"Try it and see," she counters, good naturedly, making the younger woman smile and shake her head.

"Are you and Harry more than friends?"

"Yes," Ruth answers, with a small smile.

"Much more?" Jo presses, excitedly.

Ruth gives a slightly self-conscious laugh but nods her head anyway and is startled when Jo gives a short shriek and envelops her in a big hug. "I knew it! I knew there was something going on!"

"Jo-"

Jo releases her hold on Ruth and smiles at her happily, "I'm really happy for you. For both of you, actually."

"Thank you," she mumbles. She _is_ embarrassed now, but mainly she is embarrassed at her own underestimation of their colleagues' affections for them. "Jo? Just don't make a fuss when we enter, ok. Everyone will know by the end of the night, but I don't want an announcement as we go in."

"Of course," she smiles.

--

The wait for Harry to arrive at the pub seems almost endless; Ruth can see Jo watching and smiling at her out of the corner of her eye, clearly excited about seeing them together at last. She has butterflies in her stomach, keen for this to just be done so that she can enjoy the evening with the people she loves without having to worry about their reactions anymore.

Eventually, he strolls in, and she watches as he peers around, looking for their table. Their eyes meet and she bites her lip, smiling, and beside her Jo makes an almost inaudible squeak. He makes his way to their table and the conveniently left seat next to Ruth; it hasn't gone unnoticed that the rest of the group, even without Jo's prompting, had opted to leave him a seat in that position. The group stand, and shuffle, and manoeuvre so that he can squeeze in until in time he is next to Ruth.

"I got you a drink," she murmurs to him as he gets himself settled and the rest of the group return to their conversations.

He leans over to her and touches his shoulder against hers. "Thanks," he offers and then, without hesitation, covers her hand with his and squeezes her fingers gently. She relaxes slightly at his touch, relieved that he is there and that she doesn't have to deal with this on her own. "Good day?" he asks her and she instantly realises that this isn't difficult.

"Busy but not overly bad," she replies, calmly, as she twists her hand until their fingers entwine. "Do I dare ask about your day?" she teases and allows herself to get caught up in their conversation. So much so that she doesn't notice that Adam and Zaf have left the group and been to the bar until two glasses of champagne are put on the table in front of where they sit.

"Are we celebrating something?" Harry asks, mildly amused, as he looks up to find the rest of the group smiling at them.

"Not really," Adam says, cheekily, as he takes a drink of his pint, "Cheers!"

--

The rest of the evening is spent chatting with, and enjoying the company of, their friends and colleagues. Ruth is pleasantly surprised to find that no-one makes any jokes at their expense and is able to relax and be more herself as the evening wears on.

"It's my round, who wants another?" Zaf asks as he drains the last of his beer and stands up. There is a general murmuring of who wants what and Zaf makes a mental note and tries to get the other's attention. "Harry? Ruth? Are you staying for another?"

Harry is the first to look up and smiles, mischievously. "You'd better ask the boss," he says, with a nod towards Ruth, and then calmly sips his drink as she coughs and splutters at the side of him.

"Ruth, are you and Harry staying?" Zaf asks, grinning madly.

"We are," she answers, eventually, still unable to believe that Harry has deferred the decision to her, or that he looks quite so smug about putting her on the spot. "I think it's Harry's round though!" she announces and is pleased when he looks a little less smug as a result.

"Touché," he mutters in her ear, and then brushes his lips against it briefly making her blush.

--

"That went well," he comments, as they clamber into a taxi together. It's late, very late, actually, and both have already wondered aloud whether their cohort usually stop out until this hour or whether they had simply been enjoying the chance to very gently and discretely fish for details about their relationship.

"It did," she agrees. "I was pleasantly surprised."

"Mmm," he sighs, leaning against her and breathing in the smell of her hair, "that means no more hiding things on the Grid."

"Yes, although what exactly you think we're going to get up to in a public office I don't know," she chastises, playfully.

"Ah, but I have a private office."

"With glass walls."

"And blinds. And a desk. And a-"

"Marathons, Harry," she mumbles, her enthusiasm for a good-humoured argument slightly dampened when she feels the need to slow him down.

"I know." He kisses her temple in a show of understanding. "But I'm allowed to have my little fantasy, right?"

She gives his shoulder a hard shove and pouts, making a pathetic attempt to stop herself smiling behind an enormous blush. "You're terrible, you know that."

"Absolutely. Thank you for bringing it to my attention."

"You're welcome," she retorts, accompanied by the sticking out of her tongue. As she does so, the taxi slows and pulls up outside her house.

"Ruth?" he questions, suddenly quieter and more serious.

"Yes?"

"Would you like a lift to work in the morning?"

"Won't they all think that…" She gives a cough.

"They probably already do. Who could resist?" he winks. He pauses, and then looks at her. "They can think what they bloody well like."

"Then yes," she nods. "And you were right…when you said they only talk because they care. I, er, I don't really mind what they think about us…n-now I know they're ok with it."

Without warning, he kisses her, soft and quickly, and she is a little taken aback. Her face says as much.

He shrugs. "You were being adorable again," he says, in defence of his actions.

"Oh," she laughs. "Then I'll make sure to do it more often."

"Shall I walk you in?" he asks, as the taxi driver taps on the steering wheel, signifying his impatience.

"No, it's ok."

"Ok, Ruth. Goodnight."

"Night, Harry. I'll see you in the morning then."

He nods, and leans forward for one last kiss. "See you in the morning."

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	17. Chapter 17

**Hello!!**

**We can't believe how long it has been since we updated this - the summer seemed to fly by and Autumn just wasn't a good time for either of us - so we can only apologise.**

**We you hope that, in return for this extra long chapter, you can forgive us.**

**Normal, slow, cute, gentle service has resumed....enjoy!**

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"Is there anything else?" Harry asks the team at the end of the morning briefing.

Ruth raises her hand slightly as she speaks, "Only a reminder that it's the Diwali Cultural Relations do on Saturday and we've been told someone from Section D needs to go..."

There is a collective groan from around the table and excuses are instantly offered up from the younger end of the table. Adam claims to have promised Wes a father and son weekend, Zaf is spluttering about going to visit his parents, and Jo is busy refuting Zaf's excuse, claiming instead to know that he has a date that he doesn't want to miss out on.

"You're all off the hook," Harry says, evenly, cutting across their chatter. He is aware of several pairs of eyes on him but looks into the only ones he is concerned with and asks, quietly, if she would like to go with him.

A light blush still stains her cheeks as she nods her acceptance of his offer but she is aware of how far they have come within such a short space of time. She knows that they both value privacy about their relationship but she also knows that attending a work function, as a couple, is his way of showing her, and everyone else, just how serious about their relationship he is. Only a fortnight ago, before drinks at the George, she would have been reluctant to agree to go with him but, since they have been more open about things, she has found that she is beginning to care less and less about what other people might think or say.

"That's settled then," Harry says, authoritatively, and draws the meeting to a close.

--

As per usual, she enters without knocking. "I, er, what's the dress code?" she asks, slightly flushed.

"Are you upset that I did that?" he asks, ignoring her question.

"No." She shakes her head. "Should I be?"

"Rationally, no," he chuckles, "but your ability to be rational about personal relationships wasn't the reason I fell in love with you, was it?" He steps forward, checks that everyone outside is working, and kisses her while she pouts. "It's black tie, by the way."

"Mmm, James Bond," she smiles, imagining him in a tuxedo.

"But older and fatter."

"But mine."

"You're supposed to disagree with the older and fatter part."

"I cannot be cajoled into flattering your ego on demand," she teases, and casts a cautionary glance out between the half closed blinds to the office beyond, before stepping forwards towards him and wrapping her arms around his waist. "Besides, I like a bit of meat on a man."

"I have no response to that which won't land me in trouble," he winks, and she knows that all sorts of mischief is desperate to be joked about.

"Then don't say it."

"Spoilsport."

She simply pokes out her tongue. "What time is it on?"

"Eight thirty," he tells her, "until…until I don't know when, actually. The fireworks aren't until midnight, so…"

"Ok, just wondered."

"You could stop at mine," he ventures, tentatively. "Not to…you could just stop over. With it finishing late, it's just easier"

She nods, with very little hesitation, which both surprises and pleases him in equal measure.

"You can choose where you sleep," he continues, and she laughs a little.

"I think I can trust you not to get up to mischief in the dead of night."

"More fool you," he teases. "You're a hard temptation to resist."

She looks at him sideways, a raise of her eyebrows indicating the question forming on her lips.

"Don't you dare even say it," he warns, good naturedly. "Yes I do still love you, this is what I want and, no, I don't want to change my mind and rush it."

She smiles. "I know that, really. I just sometimes still have to pinch myself in order to believe it."

"Come here," he whispers, opening his arms. She walks into his embrace as he wraps himself around her. "It's very real."

She feels his lips brush against hers as she turns her face up to his. "Ow. What was that for!?" Her hand flies behind her and swats his away from her bottom that he's cheekily just pinched.

"Proof," he laughs, "so that you'll believe me."

"Swine," she mutters.

He cuts in before she has time to mumble any more insults in his direction. "So you'll stop?"

"Yeah. Er, what will I do about my stuff? I can't take it to the party with me if you just pick me up."

He thinks about this for a moment before answering. "Come round earlier in the day. You can get ready at mine if you want to."

Again, her unhesitant nod is hugely reassuring, and Harry senses the progress they're making together.

---

It is getting close to 4pm when the doorbell rings, and Harry breathes a sigh of relief. An unaccustomed and most unwelcome bout of nerves has been plaguing him about tonight but he knows they'll settle back down once he's in her presence.

He moves quickly to the door, pulling it open to reveal her standing there in baggy jeans and fitted top, looking the picture of effortless chic. Slung across her shoulder is a largish canvas bag which he offers to take from her as she steps inside.

"Erm," she pipes, nervously, "I, er, have more stuff in the car still."

"How much 'more stuff'?" he asks, cautiously and with no small manner of amusement.

"A bit," she mumbles, blushing furiously.

"Need a hand?"

"Please."

He lets her lead the way as he follows her to the car she's parked a little way down the street and waits patiently as she fumbles for the key she's stowed in her back pocket. The boot pops open with a gentle clunk and he lifts the hatch.

"Bloody hell, Ruth, you look like you've packed for a cruise."

Her deep blush intensifies tenfold.

"I had no idea what to wear," she sighs, reluctantly. "And then this morning seemed to just disappear, so my hair's still damp and unstyled and my nails aren't done and I haven't even shaved my legs yet because I couldn't find my razor and I had to go to the shops to get one and," she takes a big gasp of air, "I just kind of emptied my bathroom into one bag and my best clothes into another."

She quiets for a moment, wondering if he has another comment to make. He doesn't.

"I'm really nervous," she admits. "I've never been to one of these things."

"You'll be fine," he reassures, grabbing both bags and leaving her hands free to lock up the car. "And you'll look lovely. You do now. I like your hair scooped up like that."

She pats her messy ponytail self consciously, unsure quite what's so attractive about her half-arsed style attempt.

"I like how it shows your neck off," he whispers, catching up close behind her and answering her question without her needing to voice it aloud.

"I'll put it up for the ball then, shall I?"

"Mmm, please."

--

A few hours later, she is still smiling at his compliments as she stands alone, in front of his bathroom mirror, cloaked in her short robe and fixing her hair. She wraps small strands around large rollers, crossing her fingers that when she pins her hair up, waves will cascade gently from her hair clip and not become some God-awful frizz. She places the last bobby-pin in position and tucks a last stray stands around the curlers before grabbing her razor and turning her attention to the next process in her never-ending preparation.

Indeed, she is so absorbed in readying herself, that she doesn't notice the presence of a rather handsome figure in the doorway.

He stands for a minute, watching attentively, almost voyeuristically. He's never really seen her body before, always covered up in long, loose skirts. Now, there is little he need imagine as one leg stretches up to the rim of the bath and one shoulder exposes itself as she reaches to rinse her razor in the spray of water and the material of her robe slips a little.

"Oh I do hope that's what you're wearing tonight, Ruth." The voice seems to come from nowhere and she jumps slightly, realising she's left the door ajar.

"You shouldn't sneak up on people who have razors in their hand, Harry!" she squeaks, pulling the short robe more tightly around her. She's well aware that from where he's standing, the material won't be coving very much of her legs at all.

"Sorry, I couldn't help it."

"Well, I do hope it's the robe you like and not the giant rollers," she teases.

He pulls a look of offence. "No, that was the bit I was hoping you'd retain."

She pokes her tongue out and goes back to concentrating on the task in hand.

"You're still watching me," she observes, without even looking.

"Yes."

"Stop it."

"No."

"It's distracting."

"You're distracting."

"You'll make me cut myself."

"I'll kiss it better."

"Too late," she taunts, finishing with a flourish and rinsing the razor. "I'm all done."

He pushes his body off the doorframe, out of its causal pose, and strolls into the room. "Shame, I was enjoying the show."

"You just see how you'd like it if I gawped at you while you shaved."

"I'd like it."

"Oh yes?"

"Yes."

"Fine. I will then."

"Good, but if you think it's my legs I'm shaving, then the deal's off."

She chuckles, and comes to stand in front of him. "How come it's such good fun arguing with you?"

"Because you love me."

She wrinkles her nose, pretending to be unsure, then pokes out her tongue. "Hmm, maybe." She laughs at the look on his face. "I do certainly love this outfit though." She runs her fingers across the yet-to-be-buttoned collar of his crisp white shirt.

"I'm glad," he smiles, "but unfortunately, as much as I'm enjoying this, it's time to get you in yours."

"Don't worry," she promises, "I think you'll like that just as much."

He groans with frustration as she waltzes from the bathroom and shuts herself away to change.

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	18. Chapter 18

**Thank you to all who are still reading and reviewing!**

**This is to spread some cheer in dark times :)**

* * *

"Do you fancy a drink," he asks raising his voice above the noise of the music and the chatter.

She smiles and nods, knowing she doesn't need to tell him what she wants him to order. He pushes through the small crowd, her hands lightly resting on his hips as she follows behind. Although the lavish function room is far from overcrowded, it appears that the bar is the only place anyone wants to be this early in the evening.

"Dutch courage before any dancing, I think," he observes, as he surveys the empty floor from his position at the bar.

"For these people? Or is that what _you_ need it for?" she teases.

"Absolutely not," he purrs, "but if you think I'm spending the next few hours talking to a bunch of suits whilst stone cold sober then you're sadly mistaken."

"Good point," she concedes, noting as she does so the figure heading towards them. Harry turns his head to see who has captured her interest and is relieved when the tall, well dressed man is waylaid by someone else.

"Sgt John Campbell-Farmer," he murmurs in her ear as his arm wraps itself around her waist and he pulls her body into his.

Her eyebrows rise a little with interest as she looks up at him. "Isn't he the one that-"

"Starred in _those pictures_ we confiscated? Yes." He flicks a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure they aren't being overheard then adds, "Bloody idiot."

She chuckles, softly. "Mmm, yes, but I think I'm jealous he's got better legs than I have in a dress!"

Their drinks finally materialise behind them and Harry nods his thanks at the bar tender. "Well, having seen rather a lot of your legs this evening," he whispers into her ear, "I'd have to completely disagree."

---

They have been inside almost an hour by the time the evening really starts to get under way and have manoeuvred themselves away from both the bar and as many diplomats as they can, preferring each other's company above anyone else's. There are a few couples enjoying themselves on the dance floor and Ruth smiles to herself as she watches them and finishes her wine. She can't help but think about how it will feel to be wrapped in Harry's strong arms, bodies pressed close, as they glide over the floor in time to the music.

"What are you smiling about?" he asks, quietly, letting his lips brush her ear as he speaks.

"Nothing," she replies, breezily, smile still firmly in place as he gives her a look.

"Fibber," he teases, "let me finish my drink first," he adds, knowingly, and enjoys the look of surprise that flits of her face. He smiles smugly at her and sips his drink slowly.

"I thought you said you didn't need Dutch courage to dance with me?"

He doesn't answer and, instead, he finishes the last sip of his drink of whiskey and takes her hand.

To their credit the band are doing an admiral job of fusing Asian music with a more mainstream style and the result is an eclectic but not unpleasing sound. There isn't even a hint of trepidation as he pulls her into his arms and begins to move them across the dance floor in time to the music. Having never before seen Harry dance, she is pleasantly surprised to find that he is a competent partner but freely admits to herself that she wouldn't mind in the slightest if they stayed in one corner of the dance floor and simply swayed to the beat. It is the intimacy of being with him like this that she is revelling in. His embrace, the smell of his cologne and the touch of his cheek against hers are a heady combination and a cross between a sigh and a giggle escapes her throat. He moves his head a fraction so that he can see her and gazes at her softly as their bodies continue to move together.

"I love you," she mouths.

His smile is triumphant as he pulls her body more firmly against his and leans down to brush her mouth with his. It is the briefest of touches, barely even a kiss, but it sets her heart racing all the same and she clings to him a little more tightly as they revolve around the floor once more.

--

"Cold?" he asks, noting her shiver slightly as they stand outside and wait for the fireworks to begin.

"A bit," she replies and smiles gratefully when he immediately takes his jacket off and drapes it across her shoulders.

"Better?"

"Much," she replies and surprises him by pulling him in close and wrapping her arms around his waist, "but I don't want you to get cold either."

His answering chuckle makes her entire body tingle with delight and she happily meets his lips for a soft kiss as he leans down to brush his mouth against hers. Suddenly, there is a bang and the dark sky is illuminated in a sea of colours, the assembled crowd begins to _ooh_ and _ah_ as the pyrotechnic display begins in earnest and Ruth snuggles further into Harry's warm embrace as they enjoy the show. It only seems like a matter of minutes and then it's over but in reality they have been stood outside in the cold night air for almost an hour.

"You're shivering," Harry murmurs, voice full of concern, as the couples all around them begin to move and head back inside the venue.

"I'm fine," she assures him with a small smile.

"Can I have my jacket back then?" he asks, cheekily.

"No!"

"Charming," he grumbles, good naturedly, when she sticks her tongue out at him, "I try and be a gentleman and look where it gets me."

"Half undressed in a field full of strangers?"

"Funny," he pouts and she's unable to resist leaning up and capturing his pouting mouth with hers. "That's a bit more like it," he mumbles between kisses.

"Shall we go home before we both freeze to death?" she asks, eventually, noting that they are one of the few remaining stragglers left outside.

His stomach does a funny little flip flop at the thought of taking her home and being able to spend the night with her and when he looks up it's clear from her face that he's not the only one thinking about it. "Let's," he whispers and takes her small hand in his as he starts to head for the car.

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	19. Chapter 19

**Thanks to everyone that has reviewed, here is an extra long chapter as a treat!**

**This chapter is dedicated to Unfinished Sympathy for being so amazingly lovely to both of us.**

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"I, er, I'll leave you a moment, shall I?" He looks at her almost bashfully, and it's actually rather endearing.

"Yeah, um, I'll just, er, I'll just be a few minutes."

He retreats with a smile, as much for himself as for her, and waits on the landing while she changes.

"You can come in," she mumbles and, when he opens the door, she is pacing the foot of the bed in a camisole and shorts. She stops and stands, awkwardly. "I, er, I don't know what side of the bed you…" she begins, trailing into nothing.

"Well, what side do you normally sleep?" he asks, diplomatically.

"I don't normally have to choose," she blushes.

"So, basically, come 2am, we're both going to wake up, attempting to sleep in the middle of the mattress?"

She nods, and smiles at the way he always puts her at ease.

"Right, then. Right for Ruth."

"So left for…lunatic?"

"Oi, watch it."

"Lover?"

"Better."

"So, right as we're looking at it, or as we lie in it?"

He rolls his eyes. "Just get in!"

She lets a long breath out and climbs in - right into the middle - and pokes her tongue out.

"Shift."

She shuffles forward, just to annoy him, and he gives her a filthy look.

"Oh, sorry, not what you meant?" she teases, and shuffles backwards towards the head of the bed, instead.

"Ruth," he growls. He's sexy when he's angry, even when that anger is just pretence.

"Harry. I was doing as instructed."

"Fine, left."

"Mine or yours?"

"Mine."

She obligingly shuffles towards the designated side of the bed and lies down, pulling the most butter-wouldn't-melt smile she knows how.

He crawls in beside her, lazily, and wraps his arms all the way around her, breathing in deeply. The last thing she remembers as she dozes to sleep is the soft feel of gentle kisses on her neck, and the thought that she could stay like this always.

---

Her eyes open lazily, watching him watching her as she blinks and tries to come round. Her only acknowledgment of him, and of the fact that they're both awake, is a soft, contented '_mmmm'_ which buzzes at the back of her throat.

"So I was lying here this morning, waiting for you to wake up," he begins, quite seriously, "wondering if I've made a terrible mistake."

He waits just long enough for the expression on her face to change before continuing as he hears her mumble, "m-mistake?"

"Mm, yes. I didn't realise you were a duvet thief, Ruth. I don't know if I can stand for that."

"You swine," she exclaims as he yanks the quilt completely off her, rolls himself up in it and laughs loudly. She crawls across the mattress and begins attacking him, pulling the covers slowly out of his grip as they roll about until, somehow, they're both partially tied up in it, and she rests on top of him, flushed with the exertion of her battle. "Apologise."

"Only when you apologise for the fact I've had cold legs all night," he teases.

"I'm sorry that you didn't like having cold legs," she intones, as straight faced as she can.

"That's not the same as apologising for me being cold."

"Damn," she whispers, and rolls off him, finally unravelling them both. She lays the quilt back over him and tucks it all around him, before pressing herself against his side. "Happy?"

"Were it not now morning and a balmy twenty or so degrees, yes." He yanks it off, and lets her snuggle against his bare chest instead, enjoying the feel of her soft pyjamas against his skin as they snuggle closer. "You know I'd love you even if you stole all of the cover, all of the time, don't you, Ruth?"

She nods and smiles, and props herself up a little to kiss him, an unhurried gesture which blends into another kiss, and another until her hair is messed up from his hands wandering through it and both their lips feel swollen and tingly.

"Do you have any plans today?" she asks.

"Of the kind that doesn't involve this?" he replies.

"Yes."

"No."

"Good," she whispers, into his shoulder, as her fore- and middle finger stroke the small patch of hair in the centre of his chest, alternately brushing it backwards and forwards.

"Having fun?" he whispers, as he watches her concentrate intensely on the job in hand. She stops alternating fingers, and her index fingers traces the letters _Y E S_ onto his breastbone. Her eyes travel over his chest properly. She's always wondered what it would be like, what _he_ would be like, when and if she ever saw him, and now she knows.

"What happened here?" she asks. Most of his scars are old and faded but, amongst them, on the highest point of his hip, a fading bruise vies for her attention.

"Terrible, terrible accident," he tells her, in his most serious voice. "Very nasty."

She looks at him, full of concern but he knows she is trying to work out when he was last in trouble.

"Scarlet tripped me up and I fell into the dining room table," he laughs. "I'll live."

She rolls her eyes. "And to think I was actually going to make a fuss of you then."

He pouts, and begins to concoct a story to appease her. "Fine," he whispers. "I didn't want to worry you but…" She laughs and laughs as he continues to concoct the most unimaginable story possible, concluding with her as a damsel in distress, rescued by the bruised and battered but valiant Prince Harry.

"Just for the effort you put into that rubbish, I'll kiss it better," she concedes, and shuffles lower to carry out her promise. When she has finished her healing, she pillows her head on his stomach, nestled tightly against the curve of his rib cage as she wraps an arm across him and toys gently with the skin of his waist and other hip. It's only when she lazily opens her eyes for a moment that she realises the effect she's having on him.

He knows the moment her hand stops tracing patterns that she's noticed, and he sighs loudly as she scrambles to be off him and away from him, sitting up cross-legged and wide-eyed in the centre of the bed.

"Why didn't you stop me?" she challenges, almost a little too harshly.

"Because you were enjoying it."

"So were you!" she counters, widening her eyes further and looking mildly alarmed. "It's not fair for me to get you in that state if I'm not going to do anything about it, is it? I shouldn't have done that."

He simply laughs and sits up.

"I'm serious, Harry. I don't want to be a tease."

"Ruth, you're not a tease."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because it wasn't an issue for me."

"But…"

"Ssh. I like having you snuggled up next to me. I like having you tickling me and touching me, and occasionally, I'm going to get turned on by it. That doesn't mean I'm going to change my mind about waiting, ok?"

She nods, a little too much, and he can tell she isn't quite ok yet.

"I wasn't in any danger of losing all control," he chuckles. "Just consider me to be…relaxed in your presence."

She smiles, weakly.

"I love you," he whispers, "and it will be more than worth the wait." He kisses her softly. "It'll be amazing, yes?" She nods, and he continues. "But that doesn't mean we have to keep ourselves in a straight jacket, holed away in different rooms. I want to still be intimate with you, Ruth, but that isn't about sex."

"No. No, you're right." She tries to sound convinced and self assured, but somehow, she doesn't quite manage.

"You're not used to this," he murmurs. It is not a question, but a quiet statement, and he pulls her close in the tight circle of his arms.

"N-not exactly."

"Are we going to talk about it?"

"If we must."

"I'm not making you, sweetheart, but I want to feel like I understand you. I want you to feel like I understand you."

She pulls back from his embrace so that her forehead rests on his chin, and begins to mumble. "I've never been with someone who appreciated me like you do. Or appreciated those things. It was always about sex for them, and I was the one who got my heart trampled on in the process. For a long while, I though that's how it was, so I just gave up."

"Oh, Ruth." He pulls her head up slightly, and presses his warm, wet mouth to her forehead in a lingering kiss.

"I, I know you're not them, Harry. It just takes some getting used to."

"I would quite happily have gone on loving you until I died, even if you hadn't felt the same. Sex is something that will happen when we're both ready, and I personally don't care when that is as long as you still love me, and you're happy."

"I know it will. Everything just seemed so muddled after we talked – I like that we said we'd take things slowly, not push anything, but then I was trying to work out what on earth slowly was, because it's not a particularly standard measurement of time and I didn't want you to start feeling impatient but then I also didn't want to push things forward too soon, and then I didn't know what I'd be pushing things forward towards and then-"

"Sssh, breathe."

"You're very fond of telling me to do that, you know?" she admonishes, lightly, and he can see that she's starting to compose herself, slowly.

"You can't guess what we're heading towards?"

She shrugs, and he guesses it is more a case that she won't say rather than she won't guess.

"Marriage, Ruth. It's where I'd like us to be heading, at least. It's what I want, and you're the woman I want it with someday. And I think you do know that, but I also know you refuse to let yourself believe things until you've heard them."

"Well I won't make you wait that long, don't worry," she whispers.

"I don't know, I rather like the idea of an old fashioned romance," he says, contemplatively.

"Really?" She's a little surprised by that but tells herself that she shouldn't really be. It has taken them a long time to get this far and he has been nothing but patient and understanding the entire time.

"Yeah, it'll give us chance to really get to know one another before becoming husband and wife. What do you think?"

"I think I love you," she whispers and then gives him a lingering kiss, which turns into several more kisses as his hands roam her back and bottom. She sighs happily as he releases her from the kiss. "And I think you'll be a hard temptation to resist."

"Self control, self denial," he repeats, mimicking a phrase he'd once used very differently, but with just as much meaning.

"You're certain about this?"

"About which bit in particular?"

"All of it."

"Yes, if you are."

She studies him, carefully. She has never met a man like him; so commanding and yet so gentle; so forthright and forward and yet so patient and traditional; and, right now, so sexy. He is offering her the future she has always dreamed of, a future she has lately come to dream of exclusively with him – it is both exhilarating and terrifying all at once – and it seems to have come from nowhere with alarming ease. He's right, she isn't used to this kind of thing, but she desperately can't wait until it becomes the norm.

"I don't _need_ you to wait that long for me, you know," she whispers.

"I know you don't. My own private life hasn't exactly been a shining beacon of excellence; I like the idea that we could both get this right, together."

"We could," she nods. "Just try not to be so bloody adorable, please, else I might not resist."

He looks at her, and he can tell she's about to cry. He is about to ask why when she cuts him off.

"I don't know why," she says, flapping a hand in front of her face. "I'm just happy."

He ghosts his lips across hers, gently, before deepening the kiss for just a second. "How about I make you breakfast and we just have a lazy morning in, then?"

She smiles. "Perfect."

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**Reviews always make us smile and help us to post sooner!**


	20. Chapter 20

**Thanks for the reviews :) Drabble prompts still apply for newbies, although we are slow at doing them - sorry! We do have a list of what we owe!**

**Sorry this ch is a little shorter...you did get a huge one not long ago though!**

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By the time she arrives in the kitchen the table has been set for breakfast and Harry is sat at the table, fully dressed, reading the newspaper. He looks up, smiling as she approaches, and begins to pour her a cup of freshly percolated coffee.

"I was beginning to think you were never coming out of the bathroom," he jibes, playfully, as she sits down opposite him and adds milk to her coffee.

"Funny man," she quips and pokes her tongue out at him. "Anyway, how did you manage to get washed and changed so quickly?"

"I used the en-suite in the spare room," he explains as he passes her some freshly made toast, "and, unlike you, I don't stay in there for fifteen minutes."

"I wasn't in there fifteen minutes," she immediately protests, only to be cut off by him.

"Nor do I sing loudly and off key whilst I shower."

She flushes instantly and shoots him a little glare as he laughs. "I didn't realise you'd be able to hear," she mumbles as she takes a sudden interest in spreading butter on her toast.

"Obviously," he says, thoroughly amused, and is unable to resist teasing her further, "Don't worry sweetheart, it's the best rendition of It's a Kind of Magic I've ever heard."

"Liar," she shoots back, good naturedly, through a small pout.

"Would I lie to you?" he asks, playfully, and dramatically puts a hand to his heart, as though wounded, when she merely raises an eyebrow at him. "I'm hurt, Ruth."

She knows he's only messing about because he can barely contain his laughter as he looks at her. "Carry on about my singing and you will be hurt," she threatens, but there's no malice in it and they both end up laughing. "Can I eat my breakfast in peace now?"

"Yes," he answers, with a smile, and offers her a section of his paper. She happily accepts it and they enjoy a relaxed breakfast together, idly chatting about certain news articles as they eat.

When she's finished eating, she looks up from the article she has been engrossed in to find him watching her with a soft smile on his face.

"What?" she asks a little self-consciously.

"I'm just enjoying you being here."

"We should do it more often," she says, quietly, and holds his gaze.

"That's the plan, Ruth," he smiles, knowingly.

"Good." They are still looking at one another across the table and she tilts her head to the side, contemplatively. "I'm not sure about the designer stubble look for you though."

He gives a brief laugh and runs a hand over his jaw. "Someone," he says, pointedly, "was hogging my bathroom and I don't have a spare razor."

"I thought spies were supposed to be resourceful," she teases, relishing every moment of their morning together.

"Well, I could have picked the lock I suppose..." he trails off, enjoying the way her breathing alters as she lets that thought occupy her mind.

She clears her throat and tries to push away the blush she can feel seeping into her cheeks. She isn't blushing solely at the thought of him seeing her naked, it has more to do with the fact that she took the thought further and somehow ended up with an image of them in the shower together. He saves her from having to try and find something sensible to say by asking her to let the dog out whilst he goes and shaves.

"Come on Scarlet," she commands as the little dog lifts her head in interest. She thinks she could suddenly do with some fresh air.

---

"You missed a bit," she says, quietly, as she watches him from the doorway of the bathroom. His eyes meet hers in the mirror and he wonders how long she has been stood there without his knowledge. "I snuck up a minute ago after Scarlet lost interest in the garden," she offers, inadvertently answering his silent wonderings. "I seem to remember a promise that I'd get to watch you shave, after all."

His face is freshly shaven and clean apart from the small blob of shaving foam that she can see lingering behind his ear. She crosses over to where he is standing and reaches out to wipe the foam away with her thumb. "There, all sorted," she whispers as Harry simply looks at her adoringly.

"Thank you," he responds, voice low and sultry, as a small smile forms on his lips. "Do I get the Ruth Evershed seal of approval now?"

She tilts her head to one side and pretends to be deep in thought. "Hmm," she murmurs, "let's see." She reaches up and caresses his cheek with her fingers. "Nice and smooth," she mutters, in her most serious analyst voice, before leaning up and nuzzling her nose against the skin of his neck. "Mmm, you smell good, too." She returns to her original position and stares up at him, a coy smile playing about her lips. "Just one more test to complete," she informs him.

"What's that then?" he asks, playing along.

"This," she murmurs and leans up to press her mouth against his. He follows her lead and meets every move of her lips and tongue with his own, kissing her with a gentleness that belies the passion he feels for her. They stand in his bathroom and kiss for longer than is probably necessary and only separate when the need to breathe becomes an issue. "You definitely get my seal of approval," she mutters, slightly dazed and lightheaded from lack of oxygen.

"Glad to hear it." And he is. He is constantly bowled over by her and how much he loves her. He can't remember a time when he felt as happy and content as he does when he is with Ruth.

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**Please review :) xx**


	21. Chapter 21

**Sorry you've had to wait a little longer for this chapter! The run up to Christmas is very hectic for us both at the moment and all spare time is spent watching Series 8! I'm sure you'll forgive us that one...**

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"Ruth?"

"Mmm," she mutters, sleepily, face burrowed into the pillow. He smiles and sits beside her on the edge of the bed.

"Work called and I have to go in early," he explains, softly, and wonders if she is listening to him or not. He pauses and gives her a warm smile as she turns her head and lifts it off the pillow so she can look at him properly. "Go back to sleep," he says as he kisses her, "it's still early."

She squints at the clock as he releases her and reads that it is only five past four. "What's going on?" she asks, tiredly, as she sits up.

"Nothing to worry about," he says, enigmatically, and kisses her again. "Go back to sleep. I'll see you later."

As he gets up and starts to walk across the room, there is a niggling thought in her mind that there is something important that she needs to say to him but her sleep fogged brain is making it difficult for her to remember what it is. He is almost out of the door when he hears her shout his name. He turns back to find her getting out of bed and jogging over to him.

"Happy Birthday," she whispers, breathlessly, when she is finally in front of him.

He laughs and cups her cheek. "Thank you."

There is time for a quick hug and a kiss before he has to leave her and go to his meeting.

---

By the time he sets foot back on the Grid properly it is very late. He has had a string of endless meetings the entire day and, as a result, hasn't had time to exchange more than pleasantries with Ruth as their paths crossed briefly. He hopes that she might still be waiting for him but isn't sure that she will be. He knows she had something planned to celebrate his birthday and knows, without doubt, that his day has ruined it. It's the first time since becoming a couple officially that work has prevented them from doing something together and there is a part of him that is worried to see what the fallout from it might be.

When he steps inside his office he is surprised, and amused, to find Ruth sitting behind his desk with a slightly off kilter party hat on her head.

"Nice hat," he teases as he perches on the edge of his desk.

"I'm glad you like it."

She doesn't look upset, in fact, she looks genuinely happy that he has finally arrived but he still feels the need to test the waters. "Have I ruined your plans?"

There is something in his expression which alerts her to the fact that he is slightly fearful of her response, and she is quick to reassure him. "Not at all."

"Oh...I thought you'd, that you might be-"

Her hand on his thigh silences him. "Harry, I'm not upset if that's what you're worried about?" she probes, gently and gives him an encouraging smile when he gives a small nod. "Work comes first, I understand that. It's how we both choose to live our lives."

He releases a breath he didn't know he was holding and leans across to capture her lips in a tender kiss. "I love you," he whispers, as he retreats, and watches in wonder at how her face lights up at his words.

"You're going to love me even more when you open your present." He raises an eyebrow at her, curiosity piqued. "But first you need to look like it's your birthday so I think you should wear this," she stands up and puts a matching party hat on his head, securing it with the little elastic strap. He doesn't say anything but the look on his face is enough to set her laughter off.

"So help me if anyone we know suddenly comes barging in here," he growls, making her giggle even more.

"I promise we're alone," she assures him as she hands him an envelope. She watches with interest as he turns it in his hands before prising the flap of paper open and lifting the card out. The message inside is handwritten and her words and heartfelt declarations bring a lump to his throat. He leans over to kiss her again and whispers 'thank you' against her mouth before pulling away again.

"Look inside the envelope," she directs, feeling slightly overwhelmed at his reaction to her card. She looks on as he scrabbles about inside the envelope and drags out two tickets for the England Vs New Zealand match at Twickenham on Sunday.

He looks at her, then back to the tickets, then to her again. "You don't like Rugby," he says, eventually.

"It's a good job it's not a present for me then," she jokes, "and besides, when I thought about it I realised there might be one or two bonuses of watching a rugby match."

"If you say anything about shorts and muddy thighs I'm going to give my spare ticket to Adam," he warns but can't fully suppress the grin that flickers at one side of his mouth.

"As if I would," she replies, with a soft laugh.

"I'll take you with me then."

"I should bloody well think so!" she teases. "Cheeky git."

He flashes her a smile and whips the party hat off his head. "You love it."

"If only I could deny it," she answers, making him laugh.

"Home time?"

She nods and takes her hat off. "Definitely."

--

"Are we going on an expedition to the Arctic?" Harry enquires as Ruth opens the door to him and he takes in the sight of her.

She's wearing the thickest, most padded coat he's ever seen, over what looks to be not one but two thick jumpers, a scarf hangs limply around her neck and he can see gloves and a woolly hat poking out of her coat pocket.

"You told me to wrap up warm," she reminds him and smiles when he closes the gap between them and kisses her on the cheek.

"Yes," he murmurs, his mouth next to her ear, "but I didn't mean for you to wear all of your clothes at once, Ruth."

"Should I change?" she asks, slightly embarrassed and worried that she has got it wrong before they've even left for Twickenham.

"No time really." He pulls back and gives her a mischievous smile. "I'll just have to help you lose a layer or two."

She splutters and then smacks him lightly on the arm. "Harry!" His answering chuckle reverberates down the hall and she gives him a shove towards the kitchen. "Go and make yourself useful and feed the cats for me whilst I get myself sorted."

He smiles and does as he is bid, giving her a friendly warning as she races upstairs that she has two minutes before they need to leave. To her credit she is back downstairs in record time and appears in the kitchen just as Harry is washing his hands.

"Better?" she asks, giving a twirl. The previous coat has been replaced with something that now looks more like a coat and less like a sleeping bag and she's limited herself to one fleece instead of two.

"Much," he says as he crosses over to where she is standing, "at least you'll fit in the car at this rate."

She pokes her tongue out at him. "Funny."

"Ready to go?"

"Yeah," she chirps, brightly, and reaches past him to grab her keys from the counter, "let's go."

--

Ruth watches Harry with barely concealed amusement as he shouts something in the direction of the rugby pitch. She lost the thread of the match a while ago and is content to spend the remaining time of the first half watching Harry as he enjoys himself. She shivers from the cold and stamps her feet together to try and circulate a bit of warmth again but her efforts are futile as a gust of ice cold wind slices through her and chills her to the bone. A look at Harry confirms her suspicions that he is somehow immune to the arctic conditions and she decides to slope off to the bar in search of a hot drink before the half time crowds descend en-masse.

She returns in less than ten minutes to find that the first half is just coming to an end. "Here," she says, smiling, and offers Harry one of the polystyrene cups in her hands.

"Tea?"

"Hot chocolate," she corrects.

"Just what the doctor ordered," he murmurs, smiling at her, and peels off the plastic lid to take a drink. "Were you bored?"

"A little," she admits, bashfully.

"Yes, well, I suppose there's only so much time you can be entertained by ogling the players' thighs," he teases, smirking at her from over the rim of his cup.

"I did no such thing!" She is almost convincing in her indignation, but not quite convincing enough.

"Fibber."

"Well, ok, I admit to some ogling," she mutters, darkly, a distinct flush creeping up her once pale cheeks, "but it's your fault!"

"My fault?" he asks, thoroughly amused.

"Entirely your fault," she confirms with a serious nod of her head, "because I was trying to picture how you would look after a game of rugby."

She sees the immediate flash of interest in his eyes and laughs throatily as he shuffles in closer and kisses her just below her ear. She shivers at the sound of his voice and the tickle of his lips against the shell of her ear as he whispers, "And how do you think I'd look, then?"

"Sexy as hell," she says, flirtatiously, a throaty chuckle escaping her as she leans back and watches the delight sweep across his face. He rewards her with a demanding kiss and, by the time he releases her, she is breathless and slightly shaky. He tucks a stray strand of her behind her ear as he looks adoringly at her.

"What's the smile for?" he asks, noticing the happy smile gracing her face.

"I think I might like rugby after all."

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	22. Chapter 22

**Sorry for the massive delay, guys! We started on Christmas fic which took priority, but then for a long time there were too many real life things that subsequently took priority over all our fics.**

**We do have a good couple of months (in fic timeline) of this written, so we do promise to try and be better. We also hope to update the Christmas one soon, too.  
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**Thanks for sticking by us – enjoy and review :)

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**Late November**

"You off now, Ruth?" Jo asks as her older colleague stands and puts her coat on.

"Yeah," she replies, thrusting the stubborn buttons through the button holes as she speaks, "I thought I might check out that Christmas market whilst it's still on."

"Oh you should," Jo enthuses, "there are some really great stalls this year." Ruth smiles and Jo can tell it's something she's looking forward to. "Harry not going with you?"

"No, he's got a meeting til late," she explains, only to stop mid way through her sentence as the pods open to reveal the man in question, "or possibly not.." she trails off and waits for him to make his approach.

"Going somewhere, Ruth?" he asks, businesslike, but she can see the telltale sparkle in his eyes.

"I am as a matter of fact," she responds and he raises an eyebrow in interest. "What happened to your meeting?"

"Cancelled," he takes a step closer to her and whispers, "thankfully. I didn't know you had plans." He sounds slightly disappointed that she might not be free and she can't help but smile at that. It's always nice to know that he wants to spend time with her.

"I was about to head to the Christmas market," she explains, "Jo says it's a good one this year."

"Ruth, it's only November."

She rolls her eyes at him. "Yes, Harry, but some people like to do their shopping _before_ Christmas Eve. Some people even like Christmas," she teases.

"You make me sound like Scrooge!"

She laughs a little and reaches out to stroke his arm. "Not Scrooge, just a bit...grumpy," she sees the look of outrage on his face and stifles a laugh, "Of course, you're free to tag along and prove me wrong..."

His face crumples a little as he furrows his brow in genuine thought; he definitely doesn't like the idea of having to push his way through an over-crowded, over-priced Christmas market when it's not even December, but he definitely does want to spend the evening with her…he always does.

"I'll buy you a glühwein," she promises, sweetly.

"Ruth," he begins, very seriously, "you know there is no way for me to accept now without it looking like I'm coming for the wine."

She laughs, loudly. "You'll come then."

"Yes," he repeats, "I'll come. I might even have fun if I'm feeling really adventurous."

She swats his arm playfully and gives him a light shove. "Are you ready now, or?"

"Just got a few things to file in my drawer. Five minutes?"

She nods and he turns to leave her, but not before smiling gently.

"You're cute," Jo observes once Harry is safely out of ear shot. "The two of you."

--

"Jo called us cute," Ruth mumbles, quietly, as she slips her hand in Harry's and begin to make the short walk across the river to the market.

"Well, given that I seem to keep smiling at the thought of wandering around a freezing cold, bloody expensive and not-to-my-taste market, just because it means I can spend time with you, I do worry she's dangerously close to being right," he purrs, lips ticking her ear. "But I'm not sure it's a term I like to attribute to myself."

She stops and tilts her head, appraising him as if he's some rare specimen caught in a net.

"What?" he asks.

"Nothing," she says, sweetly, before continuing to walk and – by the fact that they're hand in hand – forcing him to continue also. "Just that you definitely are cute, is all."

"It doesn't make it any better just because you've said it, not Jo," he reprimands, lightly.

"What's wrong with being cute?"

"It just doesn't suit me," he protests, although his remonstration is a little feeble. "I prefer to think I'm more…"

"More what?" she enquires, mischief waiting to spring forth from her tongue the moment opportunity arises. He can see it in her eyes.

"I'm not saying now," he pouts, wriggling his eyebrows at her in a playful taunt and adding; "you only want to mock me," before trying to distract her with a candle stall.

"Strong?" she suggests.

He tilts his chin slightly skyward, refusing to dignify her playful digging with an answer, let alone let her catch him grinning.

"Refined?"

He does the same again, and this time she steps in front of him and fiddles with the waist of his coat.

"Chivalrous?"

She digs her index fingers into his sides a little and pulls the face he normally can't say 'no' to.

"Intelligent?"

She scratches a finger underneath his chin to catch his attention.

"I'm not a pussy cat, Ruth," he laughs, finally, and she gives a silent, triumphant smile.

"Well, of course not, _they're_ cute," she intones. "And I knew I'd get you to talk to me!"

He rolls his eyes and mimics her voice before stopping abruptly.

"What now?" she asks.

"Dear lord I _am_ cute, aren't I?" he sighs, with a wearisome expression and no small manner of resignation.

"Undeniably," she confirms, wrinkling her nose up in satisfaction at his embarrassed blush. She flashes him a winning smile before waltzing off to the next stall and leaving him to come to terms with the fact.

--

They have been walking around the market for almost an hour before, much to Harry's relief, they ensconce themselves in a warm, bustling tent for his promised glühwein….or two.

"I was thinking of something like 'powerful' or 'commanding'," he volunteers, almost from nowhere. His voice is roughened by the cold and alcohol and the words sound dangerous as he speaks them.

"What?" she squeaks, an almost instant and irrepressible reaction which she immediately regrets. _That_ was _not_ what he meant, and she knows it. Unfortunately, several years of repressed fantasies and two mugs of glühwein, however, fail to allow such reasoning to appear at a moment's notice.

"Powerful and commanding," he repeats, slowly, enjoying the delightful flush which now rises from the 'V' of her coat right up to her cheeks. "As in," he draws the sentence out for longer than necessary, "I hold a powerful position at work and command respect. You knew that's what I meant, didn't you?"

She nods a little too vigorously, sucking both lips between her teeth which makes her eyes appear a little startled.

"You wouldn't think I meant it in any other manner, would you?"

She shakes her head, eyes even wider now, trying to manage a look of anything vaguely approaching innocence.

"I… I didn't mean… well I just… oh God, stop talking, Ruth," she scolds herself, as she attempts to muster an explanation. A couple they may be, but she's not he needs to know _every_ thought she has.

The chuckle which escapes his throat is deliciously warm, diluting the predation with which he leans forward. "You're quite smutty minded when you've had a drink, Ruth."

"Harry," she pleads, in a combination of hopelessness and slight – secret – delight.

"Alright, alright, I'll drop it," he relents. "It's a pity though…I quite like it."

"You just like having your ego flattered," she chastises. The subsequent peck on his cheek comes as a surprise and, a moment later, they find themselves in a lingering kiss.

"Thank you for coming with me," she whispers, as they break away. "Even if it isn't your thing."

He tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, leather gloves brushing against her cheek. "Will you call me cute again if I admit I actually enjoyed it?"

"Yes," she nods, and kisses him again.

"Fair enough," he smiles. "I did."

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**More soon - and we mean it! Just review, is all we ask :)**

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	23. Chapter 23

**Once again, we're sorry that there's been such a delay between chapters. Unfortunately, real life keeps getting in the way. We've not forgotten it and will finish it one day, just probably not one day soon!**

**Hopefully, you're still enjoying it, which makes the effort worthwhile. **

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Ruth is casually curled up on one half of the sofa, openly studying the man sat next to her as he studies the newspaper in his hands. It feels indulgent to be able to watch him so closely and she can't help the smile that forms as she watches his brow crease and his nose wrinkle in distaste at whatever it is he's reading. She has to stifle a giggle at his mutter of 'bloody politicians' but can see she wasn't quite successful enough when his gaze flicks to her briefly.

"What's so amusing?" he drawls, lazily.

She beams at him in response. "You are."

"I'm back to being cute again, aren't I?" he mutters with a shake of his head as he returns his attention to his newspaper article.

"Absolutely," she agrees and leans over to kiss his stubbly cheek, laughing softly when she sees him smiling. "What do you want to do this afternoon?" she asks, suddenly, as she leans back into the sofa and tickles Scarlet behind the ears. Their Sunday has been perfectly lazy up to present but she's starting to get cabin fever from being stuck inside all day. When she gets no immediate answer from him she pokes her toes into his side to get his attention.

"Hmm?" he mutters, distractedly, as he manages to tear his eyes away from the newspaper.

"I asked you what we should do this afternoon."

"Oh, right. Erm, I hadn't given it much thought," he tells her honestly and returns to his paper.

This time she prods him a little harder with her big toe. "Well do!"

The paper makes a loud rustling sound as he folds it in exasperation and then looks at her. "Very well, what do _you_ want to do?"

She cocks her head to one side and thinks for a moment. "I'd quite like to go for a walk."

"Sweetheart, it's raining," he informs her as he looks out of the rain streaked window.

"I know it is but that doesn't mean we can't go out in it."

"But..." he immediately starts to protest only to be cut off by her.

"But what?"

"We'll get wet," he finishes, lamely, and watches as she rolls her eyes at him.

"So? It won't hurt you. Don't tell me you're afraid of a bit of rain? You were in the army for God's sake!"

"And I marched about in it enough to know I don't enjoy it!" he counters, quickly.

"Stick in the mud," she mutters, under her breath, and pouts at him like a sulky teenager. "It could be romantic for all you know."

He sighs heavily and gives her a look. "Yes, but it won't be quite so romantic when we catch our deaths out there! It's December, Ruth!"

Emotional blackmail is not beneath her and she stares at him with wide, shimmery, eyes and asks softly, "Kissing me in the rain isn't worth catching a cold for, then?"

They both know that there is no way for him to answer that and she smiles widely and plants a big kiss on his cheek as he growls, playfully, at her. "Get your bloody coat on then."

--

It is, she admits, not quite as romantic as she had envisioned. Not only has her vision of 'slightly damp, hair-curled Harry' turned into more 'drowned rat, blinking desperately through rainwater Harry' as the light showers gave way to a deluge, but she's never realised before just how awkward kissing in the rain is.

"Sorry," she mumbles, as she pulls away with a small splutter. It is raining that hard that every time their lips break contact for the slightest second, rain floods down her face and into her mouth to the point that it's becoming farcical.

"Only for you," he mutters in disbelief that he's even standing in the middle of a local park during a torrential down pour. "Only bloody for you."

She laughs. She knows how utterly bonkers she is, and how utterly stupid she must look in her cagoule with the hood pulled up against the elements, but she doesn't care because he's standing there with her, looking just as daft, humouring her every whim.

"I love you," she murmurs, and he smiles, taking the edges of her hood in his finger tips to draw her near, and planting a kiss on the tip of her nose.

She wraps her arms around him and plays with his thick, sodden collar. "How come you didn't wear your other jacket?" she asks.

"Which one?"

"The outdoor one...you know, with the collar."

"Because this is thicker and, when we left, it wasn't quite the monsoon season," he replies, slightly amused by her curiosity about his choice of coat.

"Oh."

"Why?" he asks, suddenly very interested.

She looks up at him, coyly, from beneath rain-dropped lashes. "I like it."

"You like it?"

"Well, I like you in it, if we're being specific. It's the collar."

He laughs, quite suddenly, once again so easily captivated by the silliest, most adorable things she comes out with.

"Is that why you wanted to go a walk in the rain?"

"No," she laughs. "I did rather foolishly think it might be like in the movies."

He stares at her, pointedly.

"Ok," she whispers. "Maybe a tiny bit, but I did want to see what kissing you in the rain would be like too."

"And?" he asks, awaiting the verdict.

"Soggy!" she shrieks through laughter.

"Soggy!? Soggy!? Is that the best you can come up with? I'll give you bloody soggy," he teases. He scoops her up without warning, the plastic of her mac rustling as he bundles her into his arms and mutters nonsense at her. He squelches across muddy grass until he has he hovering over the biggest puddle he can find. She squeals the whole way, kicking in his arms as he makes a pretence at dropping her.

"Put me down before you put your back out," she chastises, lightly.

"Why," he whispers, directly into her ear. "You got other plans for me?"

She huffs, loudly, but smiles enough to let him know she isn't angry. "You're incorrigible."

"No," he corrects, placing her down gently, away from the puddle. "Just a flirt."

"That too," she pouts, and he can't help planting a kiss on her full lips.

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**Thank you for reading. Please let us know what you think.**


	24. Chapter 24

**Yikes! It's been a while since we posted this fic...sorry about that! The next couple of chapters are written so feel free to remind us to post if we leave it as long next time...

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"Ruth?" he calls out as he lets himself back into his house after work on Tuesday. He has worried about her all day; despite being under the weather since their rainy adventure, it isn't like her to take the day off, and when he left her this morning, she wasn't in a happy state.

Her reply is muffled and he climbs the stairs to investigate. "Ruth?" he calls again as he reaches the landing.

"I'm in the bath," she responds, wearily, and he can hear the fatigue in her voice.

He walks to the bathroom and pops his head around the door. "Can I come in?"

She smiles at him softly. "Yes, don't come too close though. I don't want you to catch my cold."

"I'm a man, I don't get colds," he jokes as he perches on the side of the bath. "How're you feeling sweetheart?"

"Like crap," she states and her point is emphasised by a rattling cough. "I have a stupid cough, my head feels like it's going to explode and my nose is completely blocked yet runny all at the same time!" she huffs.

She might feel like crap but she certainly doesn't look bad from where he's sitting. Her hair is scraped up into a messy ponytail and there are bubbles almost up to her chin; if anything, he thinks she looks completely adorable.

"Anything I can do?"

"Invent a cure?"

"Sorry, I might be good, Ruth, but I'm not that good," he laughs. "Do you want me to bring you a mug of tea up of something? Lemsip?"

She nods, tiredly, and sinks down into the bubbles for dramatic effect, re-emerging just as tired but with the skin of her face now glistening with bubbles and water. He leans over and kisses the top of her head before leaving the room.

"Harry," she asks, taking a sip of the piping hot drink he's just brought back, "what have you made me?" She shivers as her arms are raised out of the water, and she lowers them as low as possible without losing her mug in the bubbles.

"Lemsip," he replies, but he doesn't fool her for a moment.

"Harry."

"I might have turned it into a kind of hot toddy," he confesses. "Good for a cold."

She tries to look cross and suppress the smile which is forming. "I don't think you're supposed to take your decongestants and alcohol together," she mumbles, but takes a very healthy sip, hiding her smirk behind the rim of the mug.

"Never did me any harm, Dr Evershed; drink up."

She simply smiles and does as she's told, for once, too tired to argue and too desperate for relief to care that a small leaflet somewhere probably advises against the concoction.

He hums quietly to her from a stool he's brought in and placed in the corner and, in between tunes, he reveals a little more about himself.

"My mother used to hum that to me when I was ill," he whispers. "When I was 7, I had measles, and I was so miserable. My mother sat in my room with me every day and ended up making up songs to keep me amused."

"It's lovely." She is yawning as she speaks, and begins to apologise when he cuts her off.

"Bed. It's my tonic working its magic."

She makes a tired groan and leans her sleepy head against the tiles. "Hair."

"Come on then, before you fall asleep."

She sighs, deeply. "Can't move."

"You mean _won't_," he laughs. "Come here." He leans across and grabs the shampoo and the shower head, turning it on to rinse her hair in clean water.

"Christ, Harry. Let it run," she shrieks, as cold water spurts out and splashes her.

"Well it woke you up," he chuckles, and holds it above the other end of the bath until it is warm.

"I'll have cold toes," she moans.

"Oh hush, it's running warm now."

He wets her hair and begins to create a foamy lather with the shampoo, his fingers circling gently across her scalp in a fashion which makes her sleepier and more relaxed than ever. Gently, he tilts her head backwards and begins to rinse it clear of bubbles, his right hand continuing its dedicated massaging.

"Uh, I don't have any conditioner here," he mutters, and she tells him it doesn't matter. "I'll get some when I next go shopping."

She laughs a little and catches hold of his hand as he moves to put the shower head back in pace. "You're such a sweetie," she tells him, earnestly.

"You must be ill if you're paying me compliments," he retorts, dryly, but can't manage to quite suppress his grin.

She rolls her eyes at him seconds before a violent sneeze leaves her reeling. "Come on, time to get out," he says, authoritatively, and grabs a towel from the rail. "Get yourself dry. I'll wait in the bedroom for you."

He's laid on the bed reading when she shuffles in to the bedroom bundled up tightly in her fluffy pyjamas and dressing gown. He puts the book to one side and takes his reading glasses off before pulling back the thick duvet and patting the mattress welcomingly. She needs no further invitation and slips out of her dressing gown and under the sheets in record time. He fusses over her, making sure she is tucked in and that her pillows are plumped up enough, and she can't remember a time when she's felt more loved than this.

"What were you reading?" she mumbles as she snuggles up to where he is laid.

"Hmm? Oh just Birdsong," he answers.

"Would you read it to me?" she asks, shyly.

"If you like."

She watches in fascination as he first puts his glasses back on and then thumbs through the book until he finds his page again. He starts to read to her, his soft, sensuous voice caressing the words and she closes her eyes, a small smile curling her lips, as she lets the words wash over her. It doesn't take long for her to fall asleep and he puts the book aside and just watches her. She is beautiful, even when she starts to snore quietly, and he leans over and kisses the tip of her red nose, softly.

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**Thanks for sticking with us :) xx**


	25. Chapter 25

**Sorry for the delay...although in the grand scheme of things, I'd say we've updated this one pretty promptly! lol.**

**Hope you enjoy.**

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She is woken by her own shivering, opening her eyes to find him watching her with concern. A lazy glance at the clock tells her that it's 5.30am – half an hour before their alarm – and she groggily tries to decide if that means he's been watching her all night, or whether she's woken him up with her fidgeting. She can't decide, so she bundles herself up tightly in the duvet and, when he tries to peel away a corner of it to kiss her good morning, she shrugs him off with a grunt and wraps herself even tighter.

"I'll go and get you some tea," he whispers, a little disheartened, and kisses the top of her duvet covered head instead.

When he returns, she has sat herself upright, mummified in blankets still, and propped against several pillows. "Sorry," she sniffs. "I just wanted to be warm and back asleep, not fussed over. I'm sorry I'm so moody when I'm ill. I snapped at you last night, too." Her bottom lips wobbles a bit with the exhaustion of her emotions after a rough night's sleep and an aching body.

"You're allowed to be moody, sweetheart," he replies, tentatively sitting next to her as he waits to see if she'll rest her head against him like she normally does. She does, and he smiles. "When you're ill," he adds, cheekily.

"Not if it upsets you I'm not," she argues.

"I love having you living here with me," he blurts out, as if from nowhere.

"I don't think 4 days counts as living with you," she mutters, with amusement in her voice.

"You know what I mean," he whispers. "It's nice not to have one of us going home late at night or in the morning, stopping over only every few days."

"Even when I'm a moody bitch with the constant sniffles and a sickly glow?"

"Even then. I just like having you around."

"The correct response is 'You're not a moody bitch, Ruth'," she jokes.

"You're not a moody bitch, Ruth," he parrots back. "Much."

She pokes her tongue at him, smiles, and pulls an adorable pout, her lips a bright red against her pallor. "I think I'm in the mood for a fuss now," she murmurs, in her sweetest voice.

He growls good naturedly in her ear and adds, "Contrary Mary," before kissing her temple. "What can I do?"

"I want a big cuddle."

"Ooo, I don't know about that," he teases, as he pretends to weigh up whether or not to oblige.

She shuffles and tries to press herself more closely against his side, a task made more difficult by the way she's managed to bind her arms into the quilt. He playfully moves aside and she topples over as he laughs at her as she tries to wiggle herself into a better position.

"Harry!"

"Ruuuth!"

"You're a bastard sometimes."

"Only when you're really lucky," he teases. He lays himself down facing her and looks into her eyes before gently running his finger repeatedly down the length of her nose.

"I'm still waiting for my hug," she pouts.

"I'll give you a bloody hug," he mutters good-naturedly, wrapping his body across her huge quilted form. "Bloody hell, it's like being in bed with the Michelin Man, out you come." He slowly coaxes her out of the layers she's rolled in and wraps himself around her instead before drawing the duvet around them both and tucking the edges around their bodies.

"This is nice," she sighs into his chest. She is content to just be held by him and already feels a smidgen better for the attention and care he's giving her.

"It is. I think I'd like you in my bed more often," he murmurs and then immediately worries that it sounds a lot more suggestive than he had intended.

"Even in this state?" she teases.

"In any state," he says and confirms it with a kiss to her slightly sweaty forehead. "I meant what I said earlier. I like you being here with me."

She looks up at him and smiles softly. "I like being here with you too."

A happy silence settles between them once more, disturbed only by Ruth's coughing and sneezing fits, until Harry clears his throat and speaks.

"Will you marry me?"

If she could, she would have snapped her head around to him in shock, but as it is, every muscle in her aches and she is reduced to a squeaky 'what?' of disbelief which turns into a hacking cough.

"I couldn't not ask you anymore," he whispers.

She's completely taken aback by it all; despite knowing his intention for months, he's managed to catch her completely off guard, and the surprise is etched across her face.

"I'm sorry it's not a fancy proposal..." he starts to apologise having mistaken her silence for disappointment. She is quick to raise a finger to his lips, stopping him before he can say anything more.

"Don't you dare apologise," she whispers, fiercely, to him, "it's perfect."

"So?" he asks and her finger tingles as his lips brush against it to form the word.

"Yes. Of course I'll marry you, Harry," she answers, voice thick with emotion. "Did you honestly think I wouldn't?"

He shrugs, slightly embarrassed that he entertained the niggling doubts in his mind. "Not really. I suppose I just worried when you were a bit quiet."

"Daft sod," she murmurs, affectionately, and kisses him soundly.

"And you'll be Mrs Daft Sod," he mumbles through the kiss, making her laugh as she pulls away.

"I look forward to it."

"Good," he growls and pulls her back in for a heated kiss.

"You'll get my cold," she mumbles, the nasal sound of her words emphasising her point.

"Don't care," he whispers.

"That's taking the 'in sickness and in health' part a bit too seriously."

"I take it all very seriously," he replies, sincerely, and she reaches a hand up to caress his cheek.

"I know," she breathes. "I know."

"I have a ring somewhere," he confesses, "but I don't want to move."

"No, don't," she agrees. "It can wait."

"I've been carrying it around with me for weeks," he admits. "I think I'd got a bit worried about it."

"Why?"

"That you'd think I couldn't wait for something. It's so soon and I didn't want that to be the reason why."

"Harry," she sighs, and it's so soft and beautiful that he expects her to finish with a whispered _I love you_. "You're an idiot."

She splutters at the taken aback look on his face and gently traces her cold fingertip across each eyebrow as he whispers that he loves her.

"Do you know that I've thought about it?" she asks.

"What?"

"Our wedding night. I've imagined it, Harry. It's not a crime to want it."

"Have you?" he asks, slightly surprised by her openness, and very interested to hear more about it.

"Vividly," she says, boldly, but her confidence is slightly undermined by the light blush that creeps into her cheeks.

"I've thought about it too," he admits, glad that he can be honest about it with her.

"I think I'd be more upset if you hadn't, Harry." She smiles at him and fights hard against the urge to ask him how he imagines it will be. Perhaps if they discuss it she'll be able to give him everything he wants and she won't have to worry so much about pleasing him. It's not that she's as riddled with self doubt as she was at the beginning of the relationship – far, far from it – but she's acutely aware that first times can be at least as awkward as they are special, if not more so. Now that he's given her some confidence back in herself, she's keen to be proactive about matters, but the cat seems to have got her tongue. She might be bold enough to admit that she thinks about their wedding night, but the question she wants to ask is another step further altogether.

"What's going on in that mind of yours?" he whispers. He's been watching her intently and has seen a jumble of emotions flit across her face in the short time that she has been quiet.

She tries to brush the question of by mumbling 'nothing' as she caresses his face, but he isn't fooled for a second and gives her a pointed look. "I'm being silly," she admits, quietly, and it earns her another questioning look from him.

"I've embarrassed myself now," she mutters, pulling a face.

"Ruth, whatever it is, I don't mind."

"I want to know what you like...in bed," she explains, as matter of factly as she can. "I've no idea what you like and I don't want our first time to just be some experimental fumble. I...I want to amaze you," she swallows, looks at him, and meets his eye. He is smiling softly, and it's all the encouragement she needs to continue, more confidently. "I want to know exactly what you like; what you want me to do to you and what you want to do to me."

He props himself up on one elbow, and gazes down on her. "You already amaze me, Ruth; usually in completely unexpected ways."

"Harry?"

"For a nervous admission, that's a bloody sexy thing to come out with."

"It is?"

"Yes."

"So?"

"So…"

"Are you going to tell me?" She watches him, suddenly understanding that, in fact, now she's made him shy. "Please," she adds, in a nasal sounding whisper.

"I want what you want," he explains, gently, tucking himself back against her side. "Whatever happens, happens."

"Harry, I asked you a direct question and that's not the answer."

"I just want to be sure you want to talk about this; I know you've been worried and I don't want to make it worse."

"Jesus Christ, Harry," she laughs, and her blocked nose causes her to snort ungracefully, "what _are_ you thinking of asking me to do then?"

He rolls his eyes. "You know what I mean."

She leans up and kisses him. "I do, and I'm not freaking out anymore; I just want to know all about you."

"You have to tell me, in return, then."

"Um, ok, I guess that's fair."

"Good. Can I make us dinner tonight? Tempting as it is to stop in bed all day talking about our wedding night, I'm not sure how I'd record that on an absence form at work."

"Deal," she smiles.

"Love you," he kisses, against her cheek. "Make sure you get some rest today, yes?"

She nods, consentingly, and feels her body sag with disappointment as he leaves the bed.

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**And here endeth the supply of fully written up OFL. The next bits actually have to be transformed from notes and conversations into something readable. And they need to have a pretty intimate conversation! **

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